


An Experiment By Any Other Name

by adventureofthedancinggirl



Series: An Experiment by Any Other Name [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventureofthedancinggirl/pseuds/adventureofthedancinggirl
Summary: Sherlock conducts an "experiment" that involves giving John a rose every day.  The results could change the dynamic of their relationship forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a short and fluffy headcanon but it somehow evolved into a multi-chapter fic with an honest to God case in the middle. Funny how things work out. Hope you enjoy.

John should be used to finding unexpected things on the kitchen table. It’s an occupational hazard of living with Sherlock Holmes. He’s gotten used to the severed heads in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave and toxic chemicals on the drainboard but this is different. Less hazardous, yes, but also more...confusing.

The usual clutter of Sherlock’s experiments is absent from the table. In its place is a single rose. Granted, it’s in a graduated cylinder instead of a vase, but still. It seems almost ordinary, which is unusual in 221B.

The rose is a glorious shade of orange, the color of sunrise, or flames burning low in the fireplace. John reaches out to run his fingers across the petals which are only just beginning to open. As he looks closer he sees the many slight variations in hue, ranging from a deep reddish tinge at the tips to a honey-gold center, as if the flower itself is a flickering flame. It’s unusual - he can’t remember the last time he saw an orange rose, but somehow the color is familiar, comforting. It reminds him of the fire dancing low on late winter nights, of sitting in his chair and pretending to read while watching as Sherlock plays a haunting melody on his violin. The rose fades from his vision and in its place he sees Sherlock, framed by midnight London beyond the window, the faint glow of streetlamps and the flickering fire casting him into dramatic shadows, the fabric of his shirt stretching across the rise and fall of his shoulder blades as he draws the bow across the strings.

John smiles, then startles at the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door opening. He busies himself making breakfast as the man in question shuffles into the room, dressing gown askew, dark curls a deliberate mess. Christ, how is it possible for someone to look that gorgeous when they’ve just rolled out of bed? John gives his head a little shake to clear it and turns to rummage through the cabinets.

“Tea?” Sherlock asks, by way of greeting.

“On the counter,” John says, nodding toward the kettle.

Sherlock is unusually quiet as they eat, and John makes it to the entertainment section of the paper before he feels the need to break the silence.

“Sherlock, what’s with the rose?”

“Oh. That’s -” Sherlock glances at the flower then trails off.

“Is it an experiment?”

There’s a pause before Sherlock answers, “In a manner of speaking.”

John eyes the liquid in the cylinder suspiciously. It’s clear and looks innocuous enough, but there’s no telling what sort of chemicals Sherlock has lying around the flat.

“What have you got in there?” he asks.

“Relax, John, it’s just water.” Sherlock says, “Plants need water to keep them alive, though of course, a more effective way of doing so would be to leave the root system intact, but for some reason society dictates that we rip flowers from the ground and sentence them to a short, if superficially beautiful, life.”

John rolls his eyes. “Okay, so what are you doing then? Seeing how long it stays alive? That’s not much of an experiment, is it?”

Sherlock glances at John then directs his answer toward the flower between them, “It’s more of a social experiment. Or if you want to be more precise you could call it ‘an examination of the effect of symbolism on interpersonal relationships’.”

John opens his mouth then closes it, unsure how to respond. Sherlock pulls out his phone and falls silent again but John’s brain refuses to follow suit. Too many thoughts are now swirling through his mind and he wishes it would just shut the hell up.

What does Sherlock mean by 'social experiment'? As far as John knows, roses symbolize two things: sympathy and romance. Did someone die? No, that can’t be it. People are always dying of course, but the only ones they’ve heard of recently are lying in the morgue and Sherlock would be over the moon about interesting bodies, not buying flowers for them.

But romance? There was that case with the drug smugglers using the influx of roses before Valentine’s Day to import cocaine but Sherlock barely rated the case a 4 and solved it before Lestrade got through half the evidence. Besides, there would be no reason to bring roses home after the case was solved...unless he’s testing for residual drugs. John wonders if he should be watching for ‘danger nights’ but dismisses the thought.

Sherlock had called this a ‘social experiment’ but this creates more questions than it answers. What could drugged flowers have to do with...what was it he said, ‘the effect of symbolism on interpersonal relationships’? Could Sherlock be asking-?

John feels a dormant spark of hope flare up then forces it back down. _No. Stop giving yourself false hope. Sherlock doesn’t do romance. Besides, he’s just left it on the table. It’s not like he’s giving you flowers. You just happen to live here. But maybe. Shut up, stop. Just...stop._

“John?” Sherlock’s voice breaks through his inner conflict and John realizes Sherlock has been trying to get his attention for several minutes. How long has he been staring at this flower, arguing with his brain about whether or not the man who put it there has feelings for him? He feels heat rising in his face as he turns to reply.

“Yeah, sorry. What was that?” he asks, forcing his face into what he hopes is a neutral expression.

“I said ‘what have you got on today?’” Sherlock repeats.

“I’ve got a shift at the surgery. One of their doctors is on holiday.” John says as he begins clearing the table.

Sherlock frowns at this. “Molly’s expecting us at the lab. She got a couple of new bodies in that she promised we could look at.”

“Well, I’ve got to get to work. But I’m sure you can manage your experiments, social and otherwise, without me.”

“You didn’t say you were working there again.” Sherlock says.

“Yes, I did. I even wrote my schedule on the calendar because I knew you’d delete that information.”

“What calendar?”

“On the fridge,” John says, nodding toward it as he drops his dishes in the sink.

“But John -”

“Sherlock, I’ve got to leave soon or I’ll be late. Just go Bart’s and try not to drive Molly mad. I’ll see you tonight.”

Sherlock sighs in annoyance and stalks over to the sink, dropping his dishes in with an alarming clatter.

“Fine. Will you be late? I thought we could go to Angelo’s.”

“Can’t, sorry,” John says as he takes his coat from the hook, “I promised Harry I’d meet up with her this month and tonight’s the only time she was free. I might be out late so make sure you eat something, yeah? There’s some leftover takeaway in the fridge.”

John rushes out the door and Sherlock counts his retreating footsteps. 17 stairs, two extra steps to the front door, the click as it closes, then the silence that seeps into the flat every time John leaves. Sherlock turns to the fridge and catches sight of the calendar John mentioned. Sure enough, he sees a familiar messy scrawl on 29th January that reads, “9am - clinic”. He scowls at the offending paper then tears the page off and throws it in the bin. It’s not as if John will be needing it - January’s almost over anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orange Rose meanings:  
> "One meaning of the orange rose is fascination. When you are totally besotted and completely bewitched by somebody, send them an orange rose." [[x](http://www.roseforlove.com/the-meanings-of-orange-roses-ezp-29)]
> 
> "Blending the friendly association of the yellow rose with the romantic implication of the red rose resulted in a much subtler, more intriguing meaning of love emerging from friendship." [[x](http://www.proflowers.com/blog/history-and-meaning-of-orange-roses)]
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning John descends the stairs from his room with trepidation. He’s learned to sense Sherlock’s moods and is 95% sure his flatmate is in one of his sulks, and has been since John turned down his dinner invitation yesterday, though he’s not quite sure why.

Sure enough when he enters the living room of 221B, Sherlock is curled up on the sofa, back to the door, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, his bare feet tucked up under the cushion.

There is, however, a new rose on the table and coffee in the pot.

“Morning,” John says tentatively.

Sherlock keeps his face buried against the back of the sofa but John knows better than to think he’s sleeping. He bends to examine the rose. It’s yellow - bright, cheerful and friendly, a sharp contrast with the tension radiating from his sulking flatmate.

“You made coffee,” John says, unsure what to make of this. The last time Sherlock made him coffee he’d found himself locked in a lab, terrified for his life.

“Obvious,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled into the sofa.

“You never make coffee.”

“You were out late last night,” Sherlock says in response, still keeping his back to John.

This doesn’t clear things up at all, but at least Sherlock is talking...sort of. John shrugs and pours himself a cup. There’s no sugar this time so it’s probably not drugged. Besides, he admits, he could do with the caffeine.

He had returned later than expected after dinner last night. Sherlock was already in his room, though John suspected he was sulking rather than sleeping. It had been nice catching up with Harry and for once they made it through an entire evening without more than a bit of good-natured bickering. Her newly reclaimed sobriety certainly helped. She’d told him a bit about her progress, showed him her 90 day chip, then talked excitedly about her new job at a local publishing company. For his part, John had spent most of the night talking about their most recent case and complaining about Sherlock and his ridiculous experiments, much to Harry’s amusement. “I mean, what kind of experiment can he possibly be doing with one rose?” he’d asked her. Harry had just smirked at him, but uncharacteristically let the subject drop.

John glances back at the rose on the table. “Yellow today,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?” Sherlock mumbles into the cushions.

“The rose.”

“Do you never tire of stating the obvious?” Sherlock asks.

John ignores the jab, “Just saying. It’s nice.”

Sherlock finally rises from the sofa and storms over to the kitchen. “So, you prefer this?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

John’s brow wrinkles in confusion, “Sorry?”

“The _experiment_ , John. The roses. You prefer this one don’t you.” Sherlock nods at the yellow rose. John glances between it and the orange one from yesterday which is still sitting on the far corner of the table. He’s uncomfortably aware of Sherlock hovering behind him, glaring.

“It’s...nice,” John replies warily. He’s still not sure where this experiment is going or how he’s meant to be involved. “I think I liked the orange one better though.”

At this, the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch upward into a faint smile and he grabs his laptop from the desk before disappearing into his room. When he emerges fully clothed an hour later his icy demeanor has melted away and soon he’s dragging John along to Brixton to investigate an apiary. They find themselves racing through the back alleys of London and end up flashing Lestrade’s badge to get answers from a reluctant business owner.

When they return to Baker Street well after nightfall, breathless with laughter, they’re both far too tired to cook dinner so John suggests they go around the corner for Chinese. Sherlock leads the way with an endearing grin on his face and spends the meal stealing wontons from John’s plate and trying to deduce the fortunes of each of their fellow diners. John tries to hide a smile when Sherlock’s fortune tells him “People are naturally attracted to you.” His own reads “Better late than never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yellow Rose meaning: sincere friendship (without romance)


	3. Chapter 3

On the third day John is unsurprised to see another rose sitting on the table, though he is a little surprised at the color - lavender.

John glances at where Sherlock is lying stretched out on the sofa and realizes that the shirt hugging his slim frame is an almost identical shade as today’s rose. Sherlock’s eyes are closed so John allows his gaze to sweep up and down his still form. Sock-clad feet brush against one armrest, freshly washed curls spill over the other. His elegant fingers are tented below his chin - most likely he’s filing the details of yesterday’s case away in his mind palace.

After a minute John manages to pull his attention away. He’s not sure how long it will take before Sherlock decides to emerge from his mind palace so he settles in with a fresh cup of tea and opens his laptop to write up yesterday’s case for the blog. Instead he finds himself glancing up at Sherlock’s reclined form. Sherlock is fascinating even when he’s quietly sifting through his mind palace like this and John has almost managed to convince himself that his silent observations of his flatmate are entirely for practical reasons. Like enabling him paint a clearer picture of Sherlock in his stories - not that he ever writes any of this on his blog. Of course not.

He doesn’t write about how Sherlock’s eyes dance beneath closed eyelids, searching for an old memory or a place to store a new one. He doesn’t write about the way his lips part slightly, mouthing the names of suspects or poisons. He doesn’t write about the flex of Sherlock’s fingers as he flicks through an almost forgotten file, or the way his left hand twitches as if to shoo away a fly when he’s deleting a bit of information.

John watches the even rise and fall of his friend’s steady breaths and feels a sense of contentment wash over him. Every now and then there’s a slight wrinkle in Sherlock’s brow as he peruses a piece of information before his lips quirk upward in an amused smirk or a look of satisfaction. John doesn’t write about these things either.

And he certainly doesn’t write about the softer, gentler expression that sometimes appears in these quiet moments that Sherlock spends organizing his mind palace. This smile spreads slower, is purer, remains longer than the others. No, John definitely keeps these things to himself.

Over the past months, John has begun to catalog the hundreds of expressions that cross Sherlock’s face. Lately it seems that he’s memorized every detail about Sherlock, to the point that he feels he needs his own mind palace to store it all. Perhaps he’ll make himself a little memory bungalow, he thinks. But then he realizes that the only things he’d store there would be about Sherlock and what would that accomplish?

A horn honks on the street below and John jolts out of his reverie only to realize that he’s been staring at his blank screen for an hour. Or rather, he’s been staring over the blank screen at Sherlock for an hour. His cursor blinks accusingly at him. He sighs and returns to the kitchen to replace his now cold tea. When he returns to his desk he brings the lavender rose with him.

It’s well into the afternoon before Sherlock emerges from his mind palace. He turns to John and glances at the flower next to him with a slight raise of his eyebrows, no doubt noting its new location, and begins scribbling furiously in small notebook. _Right_ , John thinks, _the ‘social’ experiment_.

John sighs and goes back to his blog. He manages to type up the rest of the case in time for an early dinner and they spend the evening eating leftover Chinese food and watching crap telly. When a criminal investigation show comes on Sherlock spends the entire episode pointing out everything the forensics team got wrong and yelling about the amount of evidence the investigators overlooked. John counts how many times he calls one of the characters or the writers an idiot. 42. Not an all time high, but it’s close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavender Rose meaning: love at first sight. Also shares some of the symbolism of the fabled blue rose: mysterious and unattainable.
> 
> Thanks so much for the lovely comments and kudos on the first couple of chapters. You guys rock!  
> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


	4. Chapter 4

The following day John wakes to a screeching serenade which can only mean one thing: Mycroft Holmes has come to visit.

When the noise persists he ventures downstairs and enters through the kitchen, hoping he won’t have to play peacemaker. Sherlock is slumped in his chair like a petulant child, drawing his bow across the strings erratically, creating a frenzied maelstrom of sound. Mycroft is standing near the fireplace, umbrella in hand, glaring down at his younger brother. John admires Mycroft’s willpower not to fling his hands over his ears, an impulse he’s currently fighting. Instead he settles for preparing a cup of tea and hopes he can slip back upstairs before getting dragged into whatever problem Mycroft is here about.

He winces as the kettle clatters much louder than expected when he sets it back down. The violent symphony stops and both brothers turn to look at him in unison.

Sherlock lowers his bow, “John.”

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says, “good of you to join us. Perhaps you can add some much needed rationality to the room.”

Sherlock scowls at his brother, “I’ve told you, Mycroft, I’ve got a lot going on at the moment.”

Mycroft shakes his head in disbelief.

“A experiment of utmost importance,” Sherlock continues, “one that requires my full attention.”

At this, John turns toward the roses on the table and sees that a white one was added overnight. His movement does not go unnoticed by Mycroft who follows his gaze, raises an eyebrow, then looks from John to Sherlock.

“Hmm. Well, I suppose this matter can wait a few days,” he says with a smirk. “I see there’s a more pressing case that requires Dr. Watson’s full attention.”

John turns back to Mycroft, “Wait, what?”

Mycroft returns his gaze to Sherlock who continues to glare at him, “Don’t worry, brother mine. I’m sure he’ll solve it soon.”

“Yes, thank you. Bye bye, now,” Sherlock says, wiggling his fingers as Mycroft shows himself out.

“What case?” asks John once the front door closes.

Sherlock raises his bow again and this time sets about playing a coherent tune, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually, John. You always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White Rose meaning: Innocence, eternal love, loyalty.
> 
> Another short update today. The next few chapters have a lot more meat to them though, I promise. Chapter 5 will be posted by Thursday at the latest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some references to suicide in this chapter.

On day five John wakes to find Sherlock rummaging through his wardrobe. Before he has time to ask what the hell he’s doing, Sherlock thrusts a shirt and a pair of jeans at him and races downstairs, talking a mile a minute about dead bodies, love suicides, and “Graham” being “wrong, wrong, wrong!”

John lets his eyes slide shut again for a moment then hears impatient footsteps on the landing. He drags himself out of bed and into his clothes then follows Sherlock downstairs. He barely has time to register the wine-coloured rose that has joined the others on the table before Sherlock shoves him into his coat and drags him out the door.

When they arrive at an abandoned parking garage, Lestrade’s team has already done their initial sweep of the scene but Sherlock insists on having John examine the bodies. Lestrade sighs but allows John to confirm that the pair had most likely died of carbon monoxide inhalation from the sealed car they’d been found in.

It looks like a straightforward double suicide and John begins to wonder why they’re here in the first place when Lestrade receives a phone call confirming that the couple, whose identification lists them as Howard and Alexandra Garrideb, don’t exist.

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, “You only have to look at them to see that they weren’t a couple. They’d never even met until they were forced into this car together and left to die.”

“Oh, come on,” says Lestrade, “maybe they weren’t dating but what makes you think someone forced them in?”

“You lot are all so dim!” Sherlock says, “Look! What’s missing?”

John peers through the car window. “It doesn’t look like a robbery.”

Lestrade shakes his head, “No, they’ve still got wallets, phones and a decent amount of cash. As far as we can tell, nothing’s missing.”

“Maybe they were making a run for it,” a junior officer suggests, “The facial recognition isn’t pulling anything up in our database but that doesn’t mean they haven’t committed a crime, just that they’ve never been caught.”

“Wrong. Who are you anyway?” asks Sherlock. The young man opens his mouth to reply but Sherlock waves his hand. “Never mind. Go away.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade says, gesturing toward his retreating subordinate.

“Oh, never mind him,” Sherlock says, “Think. Really think - If you were going to kill yourself, not just try for attention, but actually succeed, how would you do it?”

John shifts uncomfortably. An image he hasn’t seen since Sherlock entered his life rises unbidden to his mind - a loaded gun in a bedside table - not protection, but a quick and easy escape. There were nights back then, after Afghanistan, when he’d done more than just think idly about the possibility of oblivion. There were nights, when things got really bad, that he’d found himself lying awake, staring at the ceiling debating what method would be the least painful for him and the least trouble for the people he'd leave behind. He hadn’t exactly had a plan, but given a few more months...

Sherlock’s voice draws him back to the present, “Go through it step by step,” he says, “You’ve decided you want to die, you’ve decided that this is a peaceful way to do it. What next?”

“You choose a place.” John says, his throat tight, “One where you won’t be interrupted.” He senses Sherlock trying to meet his eyes but averts his gaze.

“Okay, so step one checks out,” Lestrade says, “What’s fishy about that?”

“Really?” Sherlock says, “If you knew you were going to die, would you want this to be the last thing you saw?” He gestures around at the flickering lights, oil-stained floors, and the slightly pornographic graffiti, “Real romantic place, hmm? You think Romeo and Juliet would agree?”

Lestrade remains silent.

“It’s not where I’d choose to do it,” Sherlock says quietly.

Now it’s John’s turn to try to catch Sherlock’s eyes as the latter stares at a large crack in the concrete.

Lestrade runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat, “Okay, but let’s just say they decided to do it here. What else, Sherlock? I know there’s more.”

With a shake of his head, Sherlock brings himself back to the case. “So they chose this place,” he says, “Then what? How did they do it?”

Lestrade frowns, “It seems pretty straightforward. There was a line running from the exhaust to the cabin. Forensics has it. They’re trying to see if they can get anything from it.”

“They won’t,” Sherlock says, “You’re still missing one key thing...unless your lot have taken that too, which I don’t doubt, given their incompetence.”

“What?”

“Does this car start by magic?” Sherlock’s hands form loose fists and he flicks his fingers open in little starbursts. “Bit ironic for a locksmith to be missing his key. Where did it go? Did the idiots take it?”

“How do you -” Lestrade begins, then shakes his head, “Never mind. No, they didn’t remove anything else.”

Sherlock continues, “Also, do they look calm? At peace with the world? Ready to die with the great love of their life by their side? Maybe they had a change of heart. Unlikely, if you assume a love suicide or an escape from the law.”

With a shock of horror, John remembers the man’s raw knuckles and the woman’s scratched fingertips, “They were trying to get out.”

“Shit,” Lestrade says and turns to the group of officers waiting nearby, “Donovan! Pull everyone we can spare. We’ve got to find out who these two are. If we know how they’re connected we can find our murderer.”

As Lestrade’s team departs, Sherlock grabs John’s sleeve and leads him down several alleys. They walk in silence until they reach a row of old storefronts where Sherlock spends 20 minutes circling a closed up locksmith’s business then hails a cab to New Scotland Yard without explanation.

John’s mind is only half on the case. Even though they know now that it’s not a love suicide, he can’t help but wonder what could drive people to their death once they’d found someone to live for. Maybe if one of them was facing unavoidable death they might decide to face it together. After all, he’d been prepared to die with Sherlock many times over. Not that they’re...lovers. He glances at Sherlock, expecting to see his eyes closed, long, thin fingers tented below his chin, but instead Sherlock is gazing unseeing at the streets of London blurring past the window, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

\-----

The Yard is a hive of activity when they arrive. A couple of techs are running the images of the victims through a database and several others are searching manually through vehicle records, missing person reports, and immigration visas. Lestrade is in the conference room, annoyed by the lack of help the forensics report provided.

“Any leads on the Garridebs?” he asks as they enter.

“You know that’s not their name,” Sherlock says, crossing his arms.

“Well, do you have another name we can refer to them by?” Lestrade asks, irritation evident in his voice.

Sherlock waves a hand casually. “I’m getting there. But I do know that the man was a long-time mechanic who had been working as a locksmith for the past year. He lived alone and was recently low on funds which is probably why he took on a large mechanical job shortly before his death. He drank too much but tried to keep up appearances so he could maintain visiting rights with his children from a failed marriage.”

Lestrade clicks his tongue impatiently to indicate that he’d rather skip to the facts pertaining to the case instead of listening to the victim’s entire life story, but Sherlock presses on.

“The woman was a real-estate agent, though not a particularly successful one. She’s London-born and recently moved back to the city after some years living in America. She had no living family in the area, at least not any that she was close with. She may have had a few friends in the city but none that she saw on a regular basis - probably fell out of touch when she moved. She lived alone and had been thinking of getting a cat, but after an increase of in her rent and a decrease in income, decided that she should wait before adding another mouth to feed.”

“You won’t find either of them in a missing person report,” he adds.

Lestrade sighs and tells his team to pull up information on all the locksmiths and real estate agents in London.

Hours later they’re still sorting through the records with no progress to show for it. The sky outside the windows turns orange, then pink, then darkens to a deep blue. Lestrade checks his phone, frowns, and turns back to the autopsy and forensics reports. Both confirm that the victims died of carbon monoxide poisoning with no sign of a third party present but contain no insight into the Garridebs’ elusive identities.

Eventually John’s stomach begins to complain for want of food and everyone’s eyes flick toward the clock more frequently, except for Sherlock who plows ahead, ‘transport’ be damned.

Lestrade pulls out his phone, runs a hand through his hair with a sigh and addresses his team, “Let’s take a break. Get some food. We’ll regroup here in an hour.” He disappears into his office, staring at his phone with a dejected look on his face.

John buys a couple of sandwiches from a cafe around the corner. When he returns, Sherlock is seated in the same position, alternating between tapping at his phone and frowning at the list of real estate agents. He places one of the sandwiches in front of Sherlock, who ignores it as expected.

He turns instead to Lestrade who seems frustrated with more than just the case.

“You okay, Greg?” John asks as Lestrade glances at his phone for the third time in as many minutes.

Lestrade sighs, “Yeah, just had to cancel some plans. Looks like I’ll be here all night.”

He glances through the glass walls of the conference room and frowns at Sherlock who is now badgering one of the assistants for access to the database.

“As if I didn’t have enough to do with an ongoing counterfeit case. Now I’ve got to investigate a murder and babysit a consulting detective.”

John smiles sympathetically and pulls a stack of papers toward himself as Lestrade gets up to rescue his unfortunate subordinate.

At midnight Lestrade sends his team home, but Sherlock won’t budge. Eventually Lestrade finds a couple of spare blankets and John helps him set up a camp bed in his office before returning to the conference room and curling up on the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted on Saturday.
> 
> Burgundy Roses mean "unconscious beauty".  
> I decided to go back to the previous chapters and add the meanings of each color in the notes so feel free to go back and check those out if you hadn't looked them up already.
> 
> Also, I really struggled with whether to include the bits about suicide, but in the end it fit with the case. That being said, no matter how bad things seem, there is always another option. You are important. You matter. If you or someone you know are ever considering suicide, please talk to someone.  
> [This link](http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html) provides a list of International Suicide Hotlines that you can call any time.  
> If you're in the US, you can also text HOME to 741741 to reach the [Crisis Text Line](http://www.crisistextline.org/).


	6. Chapter 6

John drifts off to sleep to the rustle of pages turning and the whisper of Sherlock’s soft breathing. When he wakes a few hours later Sherlock is folding Lestrade’s evidence reports into paper airplanes. There’s an impressive variety - the standard harrier design, one shaped like a fighter jet, another with a fan-like tail, a wide-winged glider and a bottle-nosed dart.

Lestrade returns with two cups of coffee, a crease in his brow and dark circles under his eyes. He hands one of the cups to John and snatches a half-folded paper from Sherlock’s hands. “Sherlock, stop that or I’ll have you arrested.”

Sherlock leans back, picks up the dart-like plane and lets it fly. It sails all the way across the room before crashing into the window.

“For Christ’s sake!” Lestrade says, slamming his cup down on the table, “It’s like dealing with a child. Either tell me you’ve got something new for us or go home. This isn’t your playroom.”

“But how will you solve your little murder if I leave?” says Sherlock, one hand behind his head, the other making the fighter jet rise and fall on a lazy path in front of him.

John frowns, “Sherlock-”

“What?” Sherlock shrugs with feigned innocence, “Geoff’s not stupid enough to actually arrest me. Besides, it’s not really me he’s angry at. He’s just upset he had to cancel his date last night.”

“No,” Lestrade says, “right now I’m upset with _you_ because you’re being deliberately unhelpful. Tell me what you know or leave.”

Sherlock turns his gaze on Lestrade and narrows his eyes, “Last night was supposed to be your first date with your mystery woman. You’re unnecessarily apprehensive, probably because you’ve been out of ‘the game,’ as you call it, for so long and you’re worried that your first foray back into the dating world will be unsuccessful. Looks like there’s a bit of an age difference too. You’re frustrated with the case and annoyed with yourself for cancelling but don’t seem too worried that she’ll refuse to reschedule so that means you’re already acquainted with her on a fairly friendly basis and that she understands the demands of your job. Possibly she has a similarly demanding occupation with odd hours. Maybe you met her through work-”

Lestrade crosses his arms. “That’s not what I was asking and you know it.”

“You’re deflecting.” Sherlock says, “That means I’m right. And also that it’s someone we know. But who - ”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade cuts in, a faint tinge of color on his cheeks, “the _case_ , please.”

“But how can that measure up to the _fascination_ of your love life?” Sherlock says, then jumps as John hits him with a well-aimed paper glider.

Lestrade rolls his eyes, “According to you, there’s a murderer on the loose so it would be nice if we could find him. Then maybe I can reschedule my date, since you seem so concerned about that.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says, pulling out his phone and flicking through the last few messages, “Alexandra Garrideb.” he says, turning the screen toward Lestrade and revealing a photo of the woman, “Real name: Elizabeth Saunders. She was a real estate agent who dealt mainly with commercial assets. Her most recent sale was a warehouse near the river, sold to a man going by the name Jonathan Evans. Payment was made in cash.”

He taps his screen again and over his shoulder John sees a photo of the closed up locksmith’s business they had circled the day before.

Sherlock continues, “This shop was run by a man named Roger Prescott, known to you as Howard Garrideb. Prescott was one of the best in the mechanical manufacturing business until he allowed his personal life to cloud his judgement.”

Lestrade takes the phone and looks closer at the photo. “This is down near the garage from yesterday?”

Sherlock nods and reaches for his phone as Lestrade swipes back to the photo of the real estate agent.

“You said she sold a warehouse," Sherlock says, "What’s the address?”

“136 South River Road.”

Sherlock returns the phone to his pocket.

“Do you know how they’re connected?” Lestrade asks.

Instead of answering, Sherlock stands and pulls on his coat. “I’m going out.”

“Wait, what?” Lestrade says, “Sherlock! Do you have a lead?”

“No, we’re getting breakfast,” Sherlock replies. “Coming, John?”

John follows and is surprised when Sherlock actually leads him into a diner instead of on some meandering investigation. He orders the breakfast special and a second cup of coffee for good measure. Sherlock doesn’t order anything himself but steals a few sausages from John’s plate as he watches the morning commuters rushing past.

After several minutes of silence, Sherlock speaks, “John, about the Garridebs-”

“Why are you calling them that?” John asks, “We know their names now.”

Sherlock ignores this and continues, “It’s just...yesterday, when you still thought it was a suicide...it seemed to strike a chord with you.

Of course Sherlock noticed, John thinks. “It’s nothing,” he says, turning his fork over in his hands, “Just something I’d rather forget.”

Sherlock nods and turns his gaze back to the window. “It’s okay you know,” he says softly, “whatever’s in the past...it can stay there. But I need you here. Present. Now.”

He turns back to John and continues, “You’re important. You matter.”

Sherlock falls silent again, picks up one of the menu inserts, and begins folding it as John tries to process the meaning behind his words.

“So do you, Sherlock,” he says.

Sherlock shakes his head a bit and continues folding the paper over and over.

“You know that, right?” John leans forward, “You matter.” He takes a breath and continues, “more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Instead he holds out the paper he was fiddling with. It’s now an intricate rose. The tidy folds form a swirling center which radiates out into gently curling petals.

“Beautiful,” John murmurs, turning it over in his hands. He’s not sure whether he’s talking about the origami flower or about Sherlock. “Where’d you learn to do this?”

“Oh, you know,” says Sherlock waving his hand vaguely.

“Is this part of your experiment?”

Sherlock shrugs, “Not really.”

John opens his mouth to ask again what exactly the experiment is about but is interrupted when Sherlock’s phone rings.

“Did you find something?” Sherlock asks without preamble.

John is sitting close enough that he can hear Lestrade’s excited voice through the earpiece, “Sherlock, the property was paid for in cash.”

“Yes, I just told you that. God you’re slow this morning.”

Lestrade presses on, “No, listen. He _literally_ paid cash. Thousands of pounds in paper currency.”

“We’ll be there in seven minutes,” Sherlock says. He hangs up and sweeps out the door. John drops some money on the table to cover the bill before rushing after him.

When they return, the conference room table is spread with copies of bank statements and business receipts. Sure enough, Elizabeth Saunders’ company account shows a large cash deposit on the day the property title was signed over to Evans.

“She didn’t think it was suspicious?” John asks, frowning at the amount and wondering what the bank must have thought about a woman showing up with a case full of cash to deposit.

“There’s enough eccentric millionaires who dabble in real estate to explain it away,” Lestrade said, “Besides, I don’t think she was really in a position to argue.” He nods at the company ledger. John’s no financial expert but even he can see that her finances were in dangerous waters.

“I’ve pulled her records and Prescott’s,” Lestrade says, waving a hand at the stacks of files on the table. “Maybe we’ll find something.”

Hours pass slowly as they wade through the records and Sherlock agrees to accompany John for a walk when the rest of the team breaks to grab lunch. The cold air refreshes John a little and he leads Sherlock into a cafe where he orders a steaming bowl of soup and pretends not to notice when Sherlock steals all his crackers.

\-----

“Any luck finding Evans?” Sherlock asks when they return, his eyes sweeping over the information on the papers and screens scattered around the table.

Lestrade shakes his head. “Do you have any idea how many Jonathan Evans there are in this city alone?” he asks, “And that’s obviously not his real name.”

“Ah, good, you’ve caught onto that have you?” Sherlock says.

Lestrade ignores him and continues, “We did take a look at Prescott. Like you said he has a kid from a previous marriage. He was falling behind on child support payments until a month ago when he made an unusually large deposit and wrote a cheque to cover the back payments.”

He hold out the bank statement and the corresponding page of Prescott’s ledger.

Sherlock’s eyes sweep up and down the papers and he frowns, “Nothing in his business records showing what the job was.”

“Or how much he was paid,” John adds.

Lestrade takes the papers back and nods. “There is a connection though. You know that counterfeit case I’ve been working on?”

“Boring,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade is barely able to contain a grin as he continues, “Only if you think murder and false identities are boring. Look.”

He pulls out a page containing a list of banks, corresponding columns with large sums of money, and a long string of serial numbers. “This,” he says, pointing at the first bank on the list, “was where Saunders had her business account. And this one,” he points to another name halfway down the page, “was Prescott’s personal bank.”

“So?” says Sherlock.

“So, both banks were hit with a high volume of counterfeit bills!” Lestrade exclaims. “Look! These two cases are connected. Whoever this ‘Evans’ is, he’s either the counterfeiter or a key player.”

Sherlock tries to act unimpressed but John knows the sparkle in his eyes and twitch of his lips that betray his excitement.

Lestrade wastes no time getting a warrant for the warehouse and a couple of hours later they’re standing outside the old building at 136 South River Road. Lestrade is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with the anticipation of closing not just one, but two big cases.

His smile disappears as soon as they enter. There are abandoned display cases half covered with ratty fabric, some tables adorned with sheet metal and a few stray tools, but nothing remotely resembling a machine that could be used in a highly organized counterfeiting scheme.

“Maybe he moved out after he finished?” John suggests.

Sherlock shakes his head, “Look at the dust. Nothing’s been moved in this room for at least a month.” He turns to Lestrade, “your report said the most recent batch of counterfeit bills was printed two weeks ago. Although that’s assuming Anderson and the other idiots on forensics actually know what they’re talking about.”

Lestrade runs a hand through his hair and sighs in defeat, “Well, there’s no point in staying here. May as well see if there are any other leads.”

\-----

“John, have you got any cash?” Sherlock asks as they turn away from the warehouse. He had refused to get in the police car with Lestrade and now they’ve got at least a ten minute walk to a road that will likely have a cab.

“Yeah, why?” John asks, pulling out his wallet to check.

“Ten quid should do it,” Sherlock says in response. John sighs. It’s the last of his cash but he pulls out two five-pound notes and hands them over. As they round the corner Sherlock drops them into a homeless woman’s tin.

\-----

Back at the Yard, Lestrade has buried his team up to their elbows in data. They spend the remainder of the afternoon and evening looking closely at Saunders and Prescott’s phone logs, emails, and anything else they can get their hands on but nothing new jumps out at them. Without any evidence at the warehouse they’ve reached a dead end.

Sherlock disappears into his mind palace for a while, only emerging when Lestrade slams a stack of papers down in frustration and exclaims, “It’s got to have something to do with the case. Why else would he have killed them?”

When midnight approaches this time, Lestrade insists that they leave to get some sleep and a bit of distance from the case. Sherlock allows him to give them a lift to Baker Street after making him promise to call immediately if any other evidence comes to light. John barely manages to stay awake for a quick shower before collapsing onto the couch, too tired to make it upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you find all the references from the original 3 Garridebs story I snuck in? Let me know in the comments :)
> 
> In case you're feeling crafty [this](http://www.instructables.com/id/Origami-Rose-in-Bloom-Part-1/) is where Sherlock learned to make the origami rose.
> 
> If you feel like making some paper airplanes [here are some instructions](http://paperairplaneshq.com/). Just don't be like Sherlock and ruin anyone’s important papers ;)
> 
> Also, I’ve settled on an update schedule. New chapters will be posted on Wednesdays and Saturdays unless otherwise noted. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


	7. Chapter 7

John feels as if he’s only just dropped off to sleep when Sherlock is shaking him awake again.

“John?”

“Mmm.”

“John.”

“What, Sherlock?”

“Are you awake yet?”

“No. Go away.” John reaches out as if to hit the snooze button and catches a handful of curls instead.

“Ouch!” Sherlock gives an irritated huff and John breathes a sigh of relief as his footsteps retreat.

A minute later though he feels a warm hand on his shoulder and Sherlock’s breath tickling his ear.

“John, wake up. We have to go back.”

“Back where?” John mumbles and tries to burrow into the couch cushions where he hopes he’ll be able to fall back asleep.

“The warehouse.” Sherlock says, “There’s something I overlooked. God, so stupid. We have to go back before it’s too late.”

“Late?” John cracks an eye open and sees the still-dark sky outside the window, “Sherlock, I haven’t slept properly in days. Can’t it wait til morning?”

“It is morning. The sun just hasn’t caught up yet.” Sherlock replies, “John, please.”

Sherlock tugs on the blanket that John doesn’t remember having when he fell asleep.

John reluctantly forces his eyes open and sees Sherlock sitting on the coffee table, already wearing his coat and scarf, with a pile of John’s clothes beside him.

“You’ve got to stop going through my wardrobe.” John mutters as he shuffles off to the bathroom to change, though he has to admit that it’s much more efficient this way.

\-----

It’s one of those strange in-between hours after the clubbers have gone home, but before the early commuters have risen so it takes a while for Sherlock to find them a cab. John struggles to remain vertical and sighs with relief when a black cab comes trundling toward them.

The ride over takes almost an hour and John sleeps as well as he can while sitting upright. At first he keeps jerking awake with the feeling of falling sideways but eventually slips into a light doze. He wakes to find himself leaning comfortably against Sherlock, head resting on his shoulder. His first thought is embarrassment until he realizes that Sherlock must have scooted closer so he could sleep without falling over. Well, it’s the least he could do after dragging him out of bed at this ungodly hour. At this thought, John smiles and closes his eyes again until the cab drops them off a few streets from the warehouse.

The five minute walk over wakes John up a bit. Sherlock is a bundle of anxious energy, muttering to himself and striding down the pavement, coat billowing out behind him. After a careful check to make sure the area is deserted, Sherlock forces the window open and they pull themselves inside.

John paces the perimeter of the room, keeping watch at the windows and stopping to listen near the door. Meanwhile, Sherlock is on his hands and knees, muttering about the relative thickness of dust. It doesn’t take long before John hears a soft shout of triumph and Sherlock calling his name.

“Come, John!”

John casts one more glance outside to assure himself that they are alone then joins Sherlock behind a stack of boxes.

Sherlock is kneeling, a flashlight gripped between his lips as he runs his hands across the floor. John crouches down and joins him, using the light from his phone to aid their search. The dust is much thinner here and John realizes that they’re looking for a hidden compartment or trap door. He wouldn’t have expected to find one in a warehouse, but he supposes this falls under Sherlock’s theory of “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Suddenly Sherlock grabs his hand and John’s mind goes temporarily blank. He wonders for a moment if he is still asleep on the couch in 221B because he knows he’s had this dream before - him and Sherlock alone on a case late at night, huddled in a dark corner, hands grasping, hearts racing, then -

“Here,” says Sherlock, guiding John’s hand to a spot on the floor and John feels it - a small groove in the concrete. With a little difficulty they lift the camouflaged door up and peer inside. There are several steps leading down to a shallow basement.

“It looks like a bomb shelter,” John murmurs.

“This area was rebuilt before the Second World War,” Sherlock says, “so it’s not all that surprising.”

They descend and find a shelter that would have been big enough for at least 20 people to take shelter from the blitz but at the moment there’s barely room for the two of them. John squeezes around the machines at the center and peers under the sheet covering one of them.

“You were right.”

“Of course I was,” says Sherlock, but John can see the relief on his face. He snaps a couple of photos with his phone then they climb back up the stairs and replace the trapdoor. Sherlock frets about the dust they disturbed but John assures him that no one would notice unless they’re Sherlock Holmes.

They catch a cab back across town. The sky is just starting to lighten as they pass Millennium Bridge and they watch the sunrise from the steps of New Scotland Yard.

\-----

When Lestrade arrives Sherlock fills him in on their discovery with the air of a kid telling his parent he’s just won first place in the school science fair and seems a bit taken aback when Lestrade berates him for breaking and entering.

“What’s the big deal?” Sherlock asks, “We have a warrant.”

“No,” Lestrade corrects him, “ _I_ have a warrant. Me. The police. Not you.”

“Same difference,” Sherlock says and leads the way into the building.

John shrugs apologetically and Lestrade tries to hide a smile behind an exasperated sigh as they follow. They still don’t know who their suspect is but Lestrade makes arrangements to stakeout the area. To Sherlock’s annoyance, Lestrade excludes him from the plans.

“You’ve done enough, Sherlock. Go home and let me do my job,” Lestrade says.

Instead of leaving Sherlock parks himself on a chair and fiddles with his phone. John is too tired to argue so he flops down next to him and folds his arms on the table as a makeshift pillow but he’s unable to fall asleep. At the sound of a text alert he looks up to see a grin spreading across Sherlock’s face.

“Here.” Sherlock says, thrusting the screen toward Lestrade. John catches a glimpse of a short man with a round, clean-shaven face. He recognizes the area in the photo as one of the streets near the warehouse.

“Who is he?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs but Lestrade lets out a shout of triumph. “Winter! James Winter!”

Sherlock looks at him in surprise and Lestrade explains, “I arrested him five years ago for a series of bank robberies. I heard he was released several months back and told them to keep tabs on him, but as far I heard he’d gone straight. Got a job at a copy center.”

“Well, whoever told you that is an idiot.” Sherlock says. For once Lestrade is inclined to agree.

“So, what, he moved from robbery to counterfeiting?” John asks.

“And murder apparently,” says Lestrade.

Donovan appears in the doorway, “Boss? We’re ready to go.”

Lestrade gives her the new information about Winter and they turn to leave.

Sherlock stands to follow, “See, this is why you need me,” he says, holding out the phone.

“Fine, you can come,” Lestrade says.

“John too,” says Sherlock.

Lestrade smiles as he turns to the door. “Yes, I thought that was obvious.”

\-----

Official police stakeouts, John realizes, are not as interesting as Sherlock’s usual brand of suspect surveillance. As night falls over London they sit in Lestrade’s car, keeping watch over the streets around the warehouse, which is barely visible in the distance. It makes sense - a car parked any closer in this area would certainly draw suspicion but the lack of immediacy makes John relax into a half sleep.

He can’t say he misses the being on constant alert but the blood pumping through his veins would at least keep him awake during long hours of waiting. He wonders though, if it’s purely the threat of discovery that causes his elevated pulse on those occasions or if the real culprit is the proximity to Sherlock, who is usually squashed next to him in some dark corner instead of sprawled in the back seat of Lestrade’s car.

Sherlock pulls out his phone and starts tapping away. John leans back in the passenger seat but jolts upright when he feels his phone vibrate. He pulls it out and sees a text:

“-SH”

John frowns in confusion. Sherlock never sends emojis - says they’re hieroglyphs for modern cavemen. So why is he sending a rose emoji of all things? Besides he’s sitting right behind him if he wanted to talk.

John texts back, “Typo?”

He watches as Sherlock receives the text and types a reply. There’s a two second delay before he receives the message.

“No.”

John pauses, thinks of the roses sitting on the table in 221B, then types, “Experiment?”

Sherlock smiles as he reads the text then replies, “Stay awake.”

John gives an exaggerated yawn then types, “Tell me something interesting.”

Sherlock considers for a moment. His eyes flick toward Lestrade who is peering intently toward the warehouse through a pair of binoculars.

John’s phone buzzes with a reply. “I stole Lestrade’s ID again. He was being annoying.”

John lets out a snort of laughter.

“Oi!” Lestrade says, “this is a stakeout, not a slumber party!”

Sherlock catches John’s eye and they collapse into silent giggles.

\-----

An hour later John has taken over squinting through the binoculars while Lestrade checks in with the rest of his team - no sign of anyone approaching the area except a couple of teenagers sneaking past for a river-side snog.

“This is dull,” Sherlock declares.

“You’re the one who wanted to come,” Lestrade says, “begged me in fact.”

“I didn’t _beg_ ,” Sherlock says, crossing his arms, “And I thought we’d be closer.”

“This is an actual stakeout, Sherlock, not one of your legally questionable investigations.”

Sherlock unlocks the door, “Well, this isn’t working for me. I’m going to have a closer look.”

He shakes his head as John makes to follow, “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears between the buildings and John turns to Lestrade.

“Do you really think Winter will turn up tonight.”

Lestrade shrugs. “I wasn’t sure, but Sherlock wanted to come along so I assume he thinks something will happen.”

John nods. This unwavering trust they both have in Sherlock scares him sometimes.

They keep at their vigil in silence - Lestrade is watching for a sign of Winter but John finds himself scanning the dark corners for Sherlock instead. He’s not aware of shifting anxiously in his seat until Lestrade unlocks the doors and tells him to get out.

“I know you’re worried. Just go find him.”

John slips through the alleys, hugging the walls. He knows Sherlock will be somewhere he can see the warehouse entrance. That is, if he hasn’t climbed inside to wait. After several minutes of creeping through the shadows John finds himself facing the warehouse with another set of buildings on his left and a steep embankment leading to the river on his right.

There, barely visible behind several bins he sees Sherlock’s slim outline and a mess of dark curls. John breathes a sigh of relief and moves to join him. Then out of the corner of his eye sees a shadow move around the corner. He presses himself against the building and peers out. It’s Winter. And he has a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dundundun...cliffhanger. Sorry folks, I couldn't help myself. Chapter 8 will be up on Saturday.
> 
> I was having a bit of technical difficulties uploading this chapter so sorry if you got more than one notification if you've subscribed.  
> On a related note, did you know the [rose emoji](http://emojipedia.org/rose/) looks very different from one web browser to the next?
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


	8. Chapter 8

John’s heart stops as he sees the gun aimed at Sherlock who is still squinting around in the darkness, keeping careful watch on the warehouse door. He doesn’t think, just sprints straight at Winter and tackles him, knocking him sideways, and together they tumble down the embankment. John feels Winter struggle against him then the gun fires somewhere to the left of his head. He hears the shot ricochet off the gravel and Sherlock’s anguished cry of “John!”

As the ground levels out Winter twists and manages to land on top of him. John hears a crack, feels a sharp pain in his ankle and cries out. He must have loosened his grip because Winter has scrambled to his feet and is already several yards away, following the curve of the river downstream. The next second, Sherlock is there, leaping on Winter from above like a great bird of prey, cloak flying out behind him. As he wrestles the gun from Winter’s hands his eyes meet John’s for a second, sharp grey clouded with worry, then he knocks the butt of the gun against Winter’s skull. Winter slumps forward from the blow and Sherlock rushes to where John is curled, cradling his ankle.

“John! John! Are you hurt?”

John grits his teeth against the pain but feels his heart fill with warmth as Sherlock wraps him in trembling arms and helps him lay back.

“John! For god’s sake, say you’re not hurt!”

John feels Sherlock's hands tugging at his coat, searching frantically for a bullet wound.

“I’m fine, Sherlock," he says, "the gun fired into the rocks.”

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief but still looks concerned. “You don’t look fine,” he says, taking in John’s pale face and rapidly swelling ankle.

He turns toward the officers who are converging on Winter’s collapsed form.

“Lestrade! Call an ambulance!”

Lestrade motions to his team to continue securing the unconscious prisoner then jogs over to them. John smiles feebly up at him and Sherlock repeats his request for an ambulance.

“For who?” Lestrade asks, “John or Winter? What the hell did you do that for?”

“He hurt John.” Sherlock says, his eyes blazing.

Without warning, he lunges toward Winter, who is sitting up scowling at the handcuffs on his wrists.

“You’re lucky that’s all I did. If you had killed John you would not have left here alive.”

“Sherlock, I’m fine!” says John as Lestrade wrestles Sherlock away from Winter.

“It’s just my ankle,” he says as Sherlock returns to sit by his side, still glaring at Winter. “I don’t think it’s broken, probably just a bad sprain.” He winces as he removes his shoe. Already his ankle is beginning to swell and even in the dim light he can see an ugly bruise forming. “Might not be a bad idea to get it checked out though,” he admits.

Sherlock refuses to leave John’s side or answer any questions about the case. When the ambulance arrives he insists that he be allowed to accompany John to the hospital.

“Are you family?” the paramedic asks.

Lestrade steps in before Sherlock can open his mouth, “Just let him ride with you. He won’t cause any trouble. Right, Sherlock?” He shoots a look at Sherlock who nods quietly. The paramedic shrugs and turns back to John.

“Take care, John.” Lestrade says, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder, “I’ll look in on you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Greg.” John replies.

Lestrade nods and turns back to his team. As he glances over his shoulder he sees Sherlock rest a hand protectively on John’s arm as the paramedic wraps a blood pressure cuff around the other.

\-----

John was right - his ankle isn’t broken but it turns out he also has a mild concussion from when he hit the ground. That, combined with the lack of sleep over the past two days and the adrenaline crash causes him to slip in and out of consciousness as he waits between scans. Sherlock hovers nearby complaining about not being given information and demands that the doctor run more tests than are strictly necessary. Finally John is admitted to an overnight room, a single thanks to Sherlock. He drifts in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of Sherlock’s presence by his bedside. Nurses come by at regular intervals to wake him and take his vitals. A couple of times he thinks he feels Sherlock’s hand grasping his, but slips off to sleep again before he can be sure.

\-----

When he wakes for real, the first thing he notices is the empty chair beside his bed. He feels a bit abandoned until he hears Sherlock’s voice on the other side of the closed door. No doubt he’s harassing the nurses making sure John is treated like royalty or trying to get someone to violate hospital policy and ignore the rule that only family gets information. John knows he should feel bad for the hospital staff but can’t keep from smiling as he lays back against the pillows, allowing Sherlock’s voice to wash over him. He’s never felt as safe as he does with this man watching over him. Surely, he thinks, that must mean something to Sherlock too.

The door swings open and the doctor enters, followed by Sherlock and an extremely disgruntled nurse.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson,” she greets him, “I’m Dr. Montgomery. We met last night, but I’m afraid you were a bit out of sorts.”

John smiles and shakes her hand. “Thanks for patching me up.”

Dr. Montgomery nods, “Now, you should be able to go home in a few hours provided everything checks out and you promise me you’ll stay off that leg completely for a full week and no strenuous activity for at least a month.” She smiles, “Not ideal for you two of course but at least it’ll give you some time to write this one up for the blog, hmm? Sounds like it’ll make quite the story.”

John chuckles and steals a glance at Sherlock. Instead of returning the smile, Sherlock turns to Dr. Montgomery.

“Well? John’s awake to give consent now so will you please tell me what’s wrong with him?”

Dr. Montgomery’s mouth twitches in amusement as she turns back to John who nods his consent. She begins to go over the details of John’s chart, interrupted frequently by Sherlock’s questions until his phone rings and puts a stop to the interrogation.

He frowns at the number on the screen. “Mycroft. Why can’t he just bloody text,” he mutters. He gives John’s shoulder a light squeeze before sweeping out of the room to take the call.

Dr. Montgomery leaves shortly after, assuring John that he’ll make a full recovery and should be discharged soon. The nurse, a woman in her mid-thirties, steps forward and begins checking his vitals - all normal. She’s efficient and John can tell she’s passionate about her job.

“Sorry about him,” John says, nodding toward the door, “hope he wasn’t terrorising you all too much while I was crashed out.”

She chuckles and shakes her head, “There’s the understatement of the year. We had a group of nursing students here doing observations when you came in. I think two of them decided to become lab techs instead.”

John opens his mouth to apologize again but she cuts him off, “Don’t worry. If it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes last night it’d be a screaming parent somewhere down the road. Trust me, I’ve seen worse. Better those kids learn now while they have time to switch to another career, than 4 years from now when they’re buried in student loans.”

“Yeah, I guess -” says John, still feeling guilty.

“I mean it, Dr. Watson,” she says. “Besides, I’m sure my boyfriend would be the same way if anything ever happened to me.”

John feels the heat rising in his cheeks. “I - we’re -” he doesn’t really know what he plans to say but is saved the trouble when the door opens, revealing Sherlock holding a pink rose, and Lestrade, who looks moderately well-rested and happier than John has seen him in quite a while.

The nurse catches sight of the rose and winks at John as she slips out of the room.

“Is that for me?” John asks, looking at the flower.

Sherlock nods, “I’ve been told it’s customary to bring flowers to a patient’s sickbed. Besides, I’ve already missed two days of the experiment. I’m not about to miss another.”

“Doing alright, John?” Lestrade asks while Sherlock makes a show of clearing a space to lay the rose on the bedside table.

“Much better, yeah.” John says, “You didn’t have to come down.”

“Nah, it’s no trouble.” Lestrade says, “I’ve been feeling a bit guilty to be honest - it’s not your job to be chasing down criminals and yet you’re the one laid up in here.” He holds up a hand as John opens his mouth to protest. “Besides, I had to come down and remind Sherlock to give us his statement since he’s refusing to answer his phone.”

“Phone’s dead.” Sherlock says, then looks away sheepishly as the chirp of a text alert betrays him.

“I don’t have the time now,” he amends. “John’s going to be discharged in three hours and twenty seven minutes, or perhaps two and a half if the idiots who work here can get their act together and obviously he can’t go home alone.”

“Of course not.” Lestrade says with a smile. “Anyway I’ve got to go. Just be sure to come by the Yard tomorrow.”

Sherlock nods, then raises an eyebrow. “A coffee date? Really?”

“Why are you suddenly so concerned about my love life?” Lestrade asks.

“I’m not concerned,” says Sherlock. You shouldn’t be either. She’s an intelligent woman whose personality and interests complement yours. She’s obviously learned what she needs in a companion and has figured out that you’re a worthy candidate of her affections.

John looks from one to the other, suddenly curious about Lestrade’s mystery woman.

“Still, it’s generally considered rude to cancel a first date so you’ll probably want to do something to make it up to her.” Sherlock continues, “Perhaps you should give her a rose. Apparently they make everything better, though I would recommend _not_ stopping at the gift shop downstairs. All they have is this appalling color,” he says, nodding at the bubblegum-pink rose on John’s bedside table.

Lestrade chuckles and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are giving me dating advice.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Just returning the favour, Greg.”

\-----

It’s early evening by the time John is discharged. Despite his insistence that he’ll be fine with crutches, Sherlock insists that he stay in the hospital wheelchair all the way to the black car waiting at the curb. Once inside Sherlock sits closer than he normally would and John allows himself to slump sideways in his seat, resting his head gently against Sherlock’s shoulder.

When they arrive at Baker Street, John is grateful for Sherlock’s help up the stairs. The meds they gave him at the hospital are wearing off and he feels a dull throbbing in his ankle and a faint headache beginning to form. When they reach the landing John glances wearily at the stairs that lead up to his bedroom but Sherlock steers him forcefully down the hall to his own room. He all but lifts John into the bed then whisks out of the room. He returns minutes later, arms full of supplies - a bottle of painkillers, water, an extra pillow and an ice pack.

John swallows two of the pills and settles back onto the bed. Sherlock busies himself arranging the extra pillow and some blankets to prop John’s leg up then uses the ice pack to massage gentle circles across his swollen ankle. John sighs in relief and feels himself relax into the soothing chill of the ice and the occasional warmth that comes when Sherlock’s fingers brush against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meaning of pink roses: love, gratitude, appreciation. Light pink has a more sympathetic message and is a common choice to send as a get well soon present.
> 
> Garridebs, guys. Garridebs. I couldn't resist. But now that the case is over we can return to the experiment.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! And extra thanks to those of you who left comments and kudos. Love you all <3
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


	9. Chapter 9

John wakes slowly. It’s extremely comfortable lying here among Sherlock’s silky sheets and unusually fluffy pillows. He rolls over and breathes in the lingering scent of Sherlock’s shampoo and wonders what it would be like to wake up in this bed every morning with Sherlock by his side. After recent events the thought doesn’t seem quite as impossible as it used to.

He limps out to the living room where he finds Sherlock curled up on his chair and a magnificent fry-up, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, on the table. Sherlock is strangely quiet, only asking how John is feeling today and if he slept well before lapsing into silence as they eat. Perhaps he’s pondering over some of the lingering details of the case, John thinks. He still doesn’t quite understand the timeline of it all but Sherlock doesn’t seem ready to explain so he settles himself on the sofa with the newest issue of the British Medical Journal.

Sherlock deposits the dishes in the sink then hovers near the doorway fiddling with the sleeve of his dressing gown.

“John, is there anything you need?”

John looks up in surprise. It’s not that Sherlock never pitches in around the flat, though his helpfulness tends to come in unpredictable waves that last for a couple of days then vanish just when John is getting used to having clean dishes in the cabinets. But on these occasions Sherlock usually just deduces what he wants instead of asking. There’s a sort of uncertainty in the way he looks at John now.

“I’m okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods and takes a seat in his chair by the fire but gets up almost immediately and moves to the desk. After a few minutes of typing on his laptop he discards that as well and crosses to the fridge to peek at one of his experiments. He finally settles for picking up his violin and drawing the bow across the strings. The tune is familiar - one of his own compositions, and John lets the music wash over him.

He’s brought abruptly back to the present when his phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s Lestrade asking if John’s doing okay and if Sherlock is there. When John replies in the affirmative to both questions, Lestrade asks if he can please send Sherlock over to the Yard to give his statement.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock appears at his side immediately, checks that John’s ankle is elevated at the proper angle then looks at the clock and asks if he needs another dose of pain meds.

“I’m fine,” John says, smiling at Sherlock’s concern. “Actually, that was Greg. He needs you to go by today.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively then turns away to rearrange the roses on the table. He lapses into silence and John eventually gives up and goes back to reading.

Time always passes slowly when Sherlock goes into one of his silent spells but it’s even worse now that John can’t do anything to distract himself. He never realized how often he normally gets up to fetch something or other throughout the day. Sherlock seems happy enough to bring him whatever he needs but continues to ignore any attempts at conversation.

By the time Mrs. Hudson brings up afternoon tea and biscuits John is frustrated and bored. They take their tea in silence side by side on the sofa and finally, after both cups are empty, Sherlock speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

John looks over and sees Sherlock staring down at the floor, his right thumb and forefinger folding and unfolding the cuff of his dressing gown.

“For what?”

Sherlock picks at a stray thread on his sleeve. “If I had just stayed in the car you wouldn’t have come looking for me.”

“And if I hadn’t come to find you, where would you be now?” John asks, trying desperately not to think of that possibility.

“But this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Sherlock says, gesturing at John’s ankle.

“This is nothing,” John says. He flexes his foot tentatively and gives a slight grimace. “Bit inconvenient at the moment but I’m fine.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It could have been so much worse. If - if something had happened to you, I -” his voice trails off and he looks away, refusing to meet John’s eyes.

“But it wasn’t ‘worse’,” John says, “I’m okay. We both are. That’s all that matters. You should know by now that I’ll always come to find you.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says again.

“I know, but it’s not your fault, Sherlock.”

He hesitates for a second then rests his arm across Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock finally looks up, perhaps surprised by this new closeness.

“What if it was the other way around, hmm?” John asks, “Would you want me sitting here ignoring you and feeling guilty or would you want me to say ‘thank you’ and keep you company? Because it’s bloody boring sitting here with no one to talk to.”

Sherlock remains silent but leans into John’s touch. They stay in this awkward half-hug for several minutes until Sherlock pulls back and his eyes find John’s.

“Thank you,” he says, “for saving my life.”

“It’s what we do, Sherlock.” John says, “Saving each other, I mean.”

Sherlock nods and leans back against the cushions. They sit there for several minutes, shoulders brushing, each lost in his own thoughts. John is wondering what would happen if he were to reach out and take Sherlock’s hand when Sherlock breaks the silence.

“So,” he says, a smile creeping across his face, “does this mean you want me to stay here with you instead of giving my statement to Lestrade?”

As if on cue, his phone chimes with an incoming text. John laughs and gives him a shove.

“Go talk to Greg before he has you arrested.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but heads to New Scotland Yard to meet Lestrade. He returns a few hours later with dinner and a pale green rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meaning of Green Roses: renewal of life and energy; new beginnings. They are also perfect for someone who is embarking on a new venture, or recovering from a stint of illness. 
> 
> Also, in Victorian times the color green indicated homosexual affiliations and the green carnation became a popular emblem thanks to Oscar Wilde and his followers.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Sorry for the slight delay with this chapter. I had some social obligations to attend to the past couple of days. But it's still Saturday in my timezone so _technically_ I'm not late :)

#### THE PERSONAL BLOG OF

# Dr. John H. Watson

### 7th February

## The Three Garridebs

So, I’ve been laid up for the past few days as a result of our most recent case. Nothing serious, just a rather badly sprained ankle but I swear Sherlock’s been acting like I’m on death’s doorstep. Can’t say I’m complaining though. It’s nice to have him take care of me for a change.

It began five days ago with a call to investigate the deaths of Alexandra and Howard Garrideb. It looked like a standard love suicide but within seconds Sherlock deduced that the victims had never met before. Then we learned that the IDs found in the car with them were fake and it became apparent that this wasn’t a suicide. It was murder. So, who were the Garridebs and why were they killed?

Sherlock somehow deduced that the man was a locksmith and the woman was a real estate agent. Neither were reported missing so we had to sift through records of all the locksmiths and real estate agents in London. Not an easy task, nor a very exciting one. Needless to say Scotland Yard was not pleased. DI xxxxxxxx allowed us to stay and help even though Sherlock almost got arrested five times for throwing away evidence reports he deemed irrelevant or just being himself in a room full of police officers. He refused to leave so we ended up sleeping there. Or rather, I crashed on a couch for a couple of hours while he kept at it all night.

Anyway, he figured out that Alexandra Garrideb was named Elizabeth Saunders and Howard Garrideb was really Roger Prescott who was one of the best mechanical manufacturers in the country until he lost his job and opened a locksmith business instead.

They’d both had money problems and had no close friends or family but nothing really jumped out at us. That is, until we learned that the last property Miss Saunders sold was purchased with cash - not just paid in full with a check or bank transfer, but _actual_ paper money. It was starting to look like the Garridebs case was connected to another case DI xxxxxxxx was working on. You know those reports in the paper about the counterfeit bills popping up across London? Yup, turns out that her client, Jonathan Evans (not his real name obviously) was involved with this somehow.

So the police got a warrant to search the property, which was a warehouse near the river, and we tagged along only to find...nothing! There was nothing in the warehouse except some old furniture, dust and abandoned boxes. But Sherlock had that look in his eye that he gets when there’s a really good puzzle that he thinks only he can solve.

Still, there was nothing more we could do at the moment so we went back home for the night. I was looking forward to sleeping but of course Sherlock figured something out at 3am and dragged me back to the warehouse to have a look. Turns out there was a hidden trapdoor behind a stack of boxes and inside, a couple of machines set up to print counterfeit bills!

Back at Scotland Yard, one of Sherlock’s contacts sent him a photo of a man who had been seen in the area, presumably our elusive Evans. For once Sherlock had no clue who the man was but DI xxxxxxxx immediately identified him as James Winter. He had been previously arrested for bank robbery but it looked like he’d found a new way to make money after his release. A stakeout was arranged and Sherlock managed to get invited along. Of course he wasn’t too pleased with the way things are officially done so he went off on his own, leaving me to chase after him as usual.

I found him crouched just outside the warehouse door but someone else had found him too. Winter was there and had a gun pointed straight at him. I managed to drag Winter away but in the scuffle I injured my ankle rather badly. Still, it could have been much worse. I don’t even want to think of what could have happened if I hadn’t found him when I did.

The gun fired into the ground but Sherlock must have thought I’d been hit at first because he nearly killed Winter when he disarmed him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so scared. I just remember thinking it was worth the pain, worth so much more than an injured ankle to have him safe and to see how much he cares. It’s not often that he drops his guard but when he does he’s as transparent to me as the rest of the world is to him.

He was absolutely amazing making sure I was okay. Though if I’m being completely honest I think he went a bit overboard. I doubt the hospital staff were too pleased to have him around. If any of them are reading this, I’d like to apologize for whatever he did or said while I was asleep.

Since then Sherlock’s been hovering around the flat making sure I have everything I need, which is very sweet but I finally convinced him I could look after myself for a few hours while he went down to Scotland Yard to find out what happened with the case.

Here’s the rest of the story he got after Winter’s interrogation:

Apparently while he was in jail James Winter met a woman named Deborah Garry who was a genius counterfeiter, known in criminal circles as Garridebs. He managed to get the plans to build a replica of her machine and upon his release, set to work finding a place and a person to build it. One of his contacts tipped him off about the warehouses. When Miss Saunders showed it to him it was clear that she had no idea there was a secret room and he saw his chance.

He’d heard of Roger Prescott and introduced himself by having a copy of the stolen warehouse key made and, after a bit of chatting, brought up the construction job. As luck would have it, Prescott was desperate enough to take him up on the offer to build Ms. Garry’s counterfeiting machine no questions asked. While negotiations for the property were still underway Winter was sneaking into the warehouse every night with Prescott to get the machines up and running.

Undoubtedly, Prescott knew what he was building but he’d been paid well to keep his silence. In the end though, he started asking questions so Winter decided to make absolutely sure he wouldn’t talk and to take care of Elizabeth Saunders at the same time before she discovered her role the creation of the counterfeit money she deposited as payment. He figured it would be easy enough to make it look like a suicide and gave them false identities to throw the police off the trail for long enough to get out of town.

Of course when Sherlock learned the name of the famous counterfeiter he called all the investigators on the case morons for not making the connection between that case and the Garridebs sooner. Nice to know his sympathies don’t extend beyond the walls of this flat. I’d be a little worried if he was suddenly being nice to everyone.

In other news, Sherlock’s been conducting some sort of social experiment for the past week. He hasn’t explained what the experiment is but our kitchen table has been taken over by a small collection of many-coloured roses in beakers and jars. Though I suppose that’s better than the toxic chemicals that usually reside there. Today he brought home a different sort of flower which he said is a cabbage rose. Kinda reminds me of our first case together, due to its “alarming shade of pink".

\-----

**28 comments:**

Really, John? Now who’s being dramatic? I was just being helpful. Isn’t that what one is supposed to do in this sort of situation?  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 12:51

Oh, you boys need to be more careful. Are you feeling better?  
**Mrs Hudson** 7 February 12:55

I’m fine now, Mrs H. Sherlock’s been taking good care of me.  
**John Watson** 7 February 12:56

Of course, dear. You’re in good hands. Rest up and let me know if you need anything.   
**Mrs Hudson** 7 February 12:59

Some biscuits would be nice.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 13:01

Not your housekeeper, dear.  
**Mrs Hudson** 7 February 13:02

Yikes, I just went to the bank yesterday! How do I know if I’ve got any fake bills?  
**Jacob Sowersby** 7 February 13:13

Don’t you read the papers? The counterfeit cases have been in the news for several months because that’s how long Scotland Yard takes to solve anything on their own. If you’d bothered to do any research you would know that banks check their bills before dispensing them. It is highly unlikely that a bank, even one idiotic enough to accept counterfeit notes, would be unable to detect them before they are released back into circulation.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 13:19

Whew! That’s a relief! Thanks!  
**Jacob Sowersby** 7 February 13:21

Oh, roses. How sweet :) Glad you’re doing okay, John. How many roses has he brought home now?  
**Molly Hooper** 7 February 13:25

Today makes 8. They’re taking over our kitchen table. It’s getting a bit out of hand.  
**John Watson** 7 February 13:27

I have an extra vase I could bring up.  
**Mrs Hudson** 7 February 13:34

What on earth would I want a vase for? It’s an _experiment_ , not _decoration_.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 13:35

John is looking at me. Apparently clarification is rude. I apologize.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 13:37

So the experiment is still on, hmmm? ;)  
**Harry Watson** 7 February 13:46

Obviously. An experiment needs variables to be successful.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 13:47

Valentine’s day is right around the corner. Just saying.  
**Mike Stamford** 7 February 13:52

Thanks for the reminder! Got to remember to make reservations for me and the wife. How about you, John? Got a date this year, Casanova?  
**Bill Murray** 7 February 13:56

Unfortunately not. Perhaps next year.  
**John Watson** 7 February 13:59

Maybe then you can perform an experiment of your own if you know what I mean.  
**Bill Murray** 7 February 14:02

We’ll see. **  
John Watson** 7 February 14:14

Why are you people so interested in my experiments all of a sudden? It’s not like you cared about the tobacco ash or blood coagulation. Didn’t anyone notice that I solved a double murder AND counterfeit case all in one go?  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 14:16

Par for the course, mate.  
**Mike Stamford** 7 February 14:18

To be fair, it was sort of a team effort.  
**John Watson** 7 February 14:19

Yes, of course. I couldn’t have done it without you.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 7 February 14:21

Get a room already!  
**Harry Watson** 7 February 14:25

Real mature, Harry. How old are you again?  
**John Watson** 7 February 14:27

;P  
**Harry Watson** 7 February 14:28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cabbage Rose meaning: Ambassador of Love
> 
> So, the Garridebs case is completely wrapped up and we're back on our way with Sherlock's experiment. I ended up writing John's blog because there were some loose ends about the case that I couldn't fit into the previous chapters. The details aren't really crucial to the overall story but they were bugging me, so here we are. Plus, the comments were fun to write.
> 
> Can anyone list all the "easter eggs" from the original Three Garridebs story that I snuck into these past few chapters? There are several more obvious plot-related things but there are also a bunch of smaller references that have to do with people and places. Let me know in comments or as a tumblr ask at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/).
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

Three days after returning home from the hospital John is still sleeping in the downstairs bedroom. Sherlock had insisted, saying it was utterly ridiculous for John to overexert himself, going on to cite the likelihood of re-injury in patients who try to get back on their feet too soon and the number of people who are hospitalized yearly by falling down the stairs.

John isn’t sure if this means that Sherlock is sleeping on the couch or if he’s decided to forego sleep altogether in favor of a new experiment. He doesn’t argue, nor does he admit that he would happily remain in Sherlock’s bed until he either kicks John out or joins him. If he’s being honest, he’s hoping for the latter.

This morning when he limps into the kitchen he finds Sherlock hunched over his microscope and a reddish-orange flower sitting next to a freshly brewed pot of tea. Like yesterday’s rose it looks more like a garden variety than the type usually found in flower shops.

“It’s a floribunda rose rosa,” Sherlock says in answer to John’s unasked question.

John runs his fingers over the rippling petals. “What’s so special about it?”

Sherlock shrugs, not looking up from his slides. “It reminded me of someone,” he says, “That particular cultivar anyway.”

John glances between the rose and Sherlock as he sips his tea, wondering about the meaning of this specific flower. He hates the sinking feeling in his stomach as he imagines some faceless stranger, a ghost from the past, holding this flower in one hand and Sherlock’s hand in the other.

He wants to ask Sherlock who this person is but can’t bring himself to form the question. Instead he grabs his laptop, props his leg up on the coffee table, and types “floribunda rose” into the search engine. He’s met with images of the ruffly flower in all combinations of colours and patterns.

He adds “social experiment” to his search but all he gets are videos of people standing on street corners giving roses to strangers and articles about wooing your date. He hits the back button and returns to his previous search. Several minutes later John finds himself perusing a horticultural directory. He scans the cultivar names looking for a corresponding image that matches the flower on their table but he can’t seem to find it. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that the few plants on the list which are named after actual people are nowhere near the same shade as the flower in front of him. Then he scolds himself - first, for being jealous of some hypothetical past lover, and second, for believing, even for a moment, that Sherlock would be that obvious.

John continues to scroll through the page, looking for anything that could give him a hint about Sherlock’s emotional connection with this rose. Most of the varieties on the list have more fanciful names like “Gilded Sun” (a deep golden yellow), “Sultry Sangria” (a unique purple-pink combination), “Candy Cane Cocktail” (a pink flower that would not look out of place at a princess tea party), and “Rainbow Sorbet” (which looks exactly like one would expect with that sort of name).

The closest thing he can find is a dark red flower called “Canyon Road”. It’s hard to tell on the screen but it looks like a deeper shade than the rose on the table and as John scans the description he can’t think why Sherlock would associate this particular rose with anyone, at least not in a sentimental way.

There are a few others with names like “Playboy” (a firey orange and yellow bloom) and “Passionate Kisses” (a delicate salmon colour), that make him blush to think about Sherlock in the same breath, but he realises that neither of these are the shade he’s looking for.

Before he can click to another page Sherlock appears at his elbow and John slams his laptop closed.

Sherlock frowns at him. “What are you doing?”

“I- well, nothing,” John says, sliding the laptop onto the table and covering it with a magazine.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Fancy a bite to eat?” John asks.

Sherlock’s eyes flick toward his ankle but John heaves himself off the couch.

“Come on, I can make it downstairs at least. I’ll let you help me if it makes you feel better.”

Sherlock nods and they venture downstairs for sandwiches at Speedy’s.

After lunch Sherlock returns to his slides. The previous roses still take up a large portion of the table and John begins to wonder if they’re just a byproduct of Sherlock’s usual curiosity despite what he said about a “social experiment”. Maybe he’s examining pollen samples or something. John feels a flash of disappointment at this thought but a second later Sherlock waves him over and tells him to have a look. John peers through the eyepiece and sees a sample of paper fibres.

“What is this?” he asks.

Sherlock reaches around him to adjust one of the dials. “Look closer.”

John forces himself to ignore the way his pulse picks up speed as Sherlock’s fingers brush his wrist. He takes another look through the lens then bites back a laugh, torn between amusement and disapproval.

“Does Greg know you took this?”

Sherlock pulls out several more 50 pound notes and begins cutting them into thin strips.

“It’s not like I’m going to try and spend them,” he says, lowering each strip carefully into test tubes filled with different liquids. “I’m just trying to understand how so many counterfeits slipped through. Bankers can’t really be that stupid.”

Sherlock remains immersed in his work all evening, only emerging to help John heat up some dinner. When midnight approaches he shows no signs of abandoning his experiment so John bids him goodnight and shuffles off to the bedroom. He falls asleep imagining Sherlock lying beside him, and pretends that the gentle wind outside the window is the sound of his quiet breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> The name of today’s mystery rose: “Red Soldier” or “Fusilier”. I’m sure you can all figure out who it reminded Sherlock of and why.
> 
> John’s actually not bad at googling things. It’s just really hard to find this specific cultivar if you only search for “floribunda rose” without knowing the specific name beforehand. What you do find easily is all those other names I included (yes, those are real names of roses). I happened to stumble across the fusilier rose when I was looking up info on another rose variety (which appears in the next chapter) and just had to include it. 
> 
> In case anyone's interested, [this website](http://www.starrosesandplants.com/plants/plant-type/floribunda-rose) is where I got the other fun rose names.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hello :)


	12. Chapter 12

That night John dreams about Sherlock. It’s not an unusual occurrence but it’s particularly awkward this time when he wakes up in Sherlock’s bed thoroughly aroused with the lingering image of Sherlock lying naked beside him, long thin fingers slowly caressing every inch of his body.

He hears Sherlock shuffling around in the kitchen and takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. However, this plan backfires because with each inhale John breathes in the scent of _Sherlock_ that still lingers on the pillows.

He bites back a moan and pulls himself out of bed. Usually when this happens he’s able to clear his head with a brisk walk, but the slight twinge in his left ankle tells him that’s not an option today.

Instead John steps into the shower and closes his eyes as the water slides over his body. He contemplates sliding his hand downward but decides against it. The only thing more mortifying than waking up hard in his best friend’s bed would be having said best friend pick him up off the floor after his ankle gave out while wanking in the shower. So he turns the water as cold as he can stand and lets the icy sensation numb his body.

When he limps out to the living room shivering slightly he finds Sherlock reclined elegantly on the sofa, which does nothing for his state of mind. He readjusts his bathrobe and slides into his seat at the desk to hide his returning erection.

The loud scraping of the chair against the floor rouses Sherlock. He glances over at John who wills his body not to betray him and forces himself to maintain eye contact for what he hopes is long enough to allay suspicion. After a few seconds Sherlock rises and crosses to the kitchen. He reaches into the throng of flowers, extracts a new one - yellow with orange stripes, and places it on the desk in front of John with a smile.

\-----

The day is torture for John. Every time Sherlock brushes his shoulder as he passes or bends to check the wrap on his ankle John fights back the desire to reach up and kiss him or better yet, drag him off to the bedroom to re-enact his dream - he wouldn’t need to worry about his ankle once they’re horizontal.

By evening John feels about ready to explode. It seems like the number of incidental touches they share has multiplied exponentially today so as soon as dinner is over he excuses himself and retreats upstairs to his own bedroom. As much as he’d like to remain in Sherlock’s bed until the man gives in and joins him John figures it’s best to quit while he’s ahead before his nighttime fantasies lead to an embarrassing situation.

Sherlock half-rises to help him up the stairs but John shakes his head and insists, perhaps a little too roughly, that he’s fine. Sherlock frowns over the striped flower but bids John good night and watches him retreat into the hall.

John sighs in relief when he confirms that his ankle has healed enough for him to limp up the stairs without assistance because having Sherlock touch him in any way right now would be more than just a “bit not good.”

He collapses onto the bed with a sigh then freezes as he breathes in. Apparently Sherlock decided to sleep up here while John was in his bed. John can smell the familiar scent of shampoo, musky cologne and _Sherlock_. He turns the pillow over and lays flat on his back instead of on his side as he usually does but it doesn’t help. He groans in frustration and slides his hand under the covers, finally allowing himself release before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Striped roses meaning: a warm heart  
> Yellow and orange together: “passionate thoughts”
> 
> Slight change in the schedule for this coming week: next chapter will likely be posted on Thursday due to some other projects I've got going on. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Have a lovely weekend!


	13. Chapter 13

John wakes to find a peach rose sitting on his bedside table. When did Sherlock sneak in to put it there? He hastily checks to make sure that all signs of his late night fantasy are hidden from view then heads downstairs bringing the rose with him.

Sherlock is seated at the kitchen table waiting for him with a box of pastries and the roses from the past couple of weeks clustered around him.

“What’s all this?”

“Thought you might like breakfast,” Sherlock says, nodding at the box and revealing a pot of tea that was hidden behind the assembly of flowers.

John sets the peach rose among its fellows and bites into one of the muffins, savoring the warm center and juicy blueberries. Sherlock seems to be contemplating something as he sips his tea. As John helps himself to a second pastry Sherlock speaks.

“Would you like to go out tonight?”

“Out where?” John asks around a mouthful of croissant, “Is there a case?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Dinner? Maybe a bit of a walk if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Sure. Yeah. That’d be great.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock says and plucks the remaining doughnut from the box.

They each go about their own business for the rest of the day but at 6:00 pm sharp, Sherlock disappears into his room to get ready. John retreats upstairs to do the same and is struck by the odd sense that he’s preparing for a date. Which is ridiculous of course. They’ve gone out to dinner together like this countless times.

If he does feel a twinge of excitement in his stomach John tells himself that it’s got nothing to do with Sherlock. He’s just happy to be getting out of the flat after being laid up for almost a week, that’s all. Nonetheless he pulls on a rather nicer shirt and pair of shoes than he would normally wear for dinner with his flatmate.

When he descends the stairs he can’t help the way his heart beats a little faster seeing Sherlock standing before the mirror fixing his collar. John feels an urge to run his hands through the perfectly arranged curls. Sherlock’s eyes meet his in the mirror.

“Ready?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. His eyes flick down toward John’s feet and he smiles then leads the way down the stairs.

\-----

They chat about the usual things - potential cases from Lestrade that Sherlock thinks are too boring, an article John read about undetectable poisons which Sherlock now wants to import so he can examine them, and how many of their fellow diners are having affairs.

They fall silent for a bit when the food arrives, savoring the rich flavors. As they wait for the desert Angelo insisted on bringing them John breaks the silence.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“This. Dinner. Bringing me out tonight.”

“It’s nothing special.” Sherlock says, not meeting his eyes.

John wants to say something along the lines of how every day with Sherlock is special but can’t figure out how to put it into words. Instead he adds, “and for taking care of me this week.”

Sherlock shrugs. “You saved my life. It’s only fair.”

“I’m pretty sure you saved my life on that case last month, you know, the one with the superstitious salesman?” John says.

“You were willing to die in my place at the pool,” Sherlock counters.

“Is this a bloody competition?” John asks.

“Even if it is you saved my life on our first case together,” Sherlock says, “You win.”

John shakes his head. “You still saved me first. The day we met at Bart’s. If you hadn’t come into my life when you did…” he gazes at the flickering candle between them, “you saved me the moment we met, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opens his mouth then closes it again. For once his desire to always have the last word seems to have been overridden.

John smiles. “I never thanked you for that. So...thanks.”

\-----

John convinces Sherlock to walk home instead of taking a cab even though his still-tender ankle protests at the sudden increase in activity. As they wander down a few side streets, away from the bright center of town, he tries to hide the slight limp that returns the longer they walk. Sherlock notices almost immediately but doesn’t say anything, trusting John to know his limits. Instead he loops his arm loosely around John’s waist to lend some support.

As they emerge from a dense patch of buildings Sherlock brings them to a halt, head tilted back, face to the sky. John follows his gaze, scanning the rooftop before realizing that Sherlock is actually looking beyond it at the stars.

“That’s the big dipper.” John says, pointing, “and that over there is the North Star.”

“This again?” Sherlock grumbles.

“It’s not just trivia.” John says, “Stars help with navigation.”

“Why would I need them to navigate the city? You can hardly see them here and anyway I have an impeccable sense of direction.”

John chuckles, thinking of how Sherlock seems like a walking GPS in the streets of London but hands him a map and demands that he navigate every turn when they drive out for a case in the unfamiliar countryside.

Sherlock points to a spot between the rooftop of the building next to them and a taller apartment in the distance.

“Fine. That’s Orion the hunter. His knee,” he points again, “is called Rigel even though the name actually means ‘foot’. Betelgeuse is his armpit and he has no head for some reason. Trace a path down to the left and you have the brightest star in the sky - Sirius, the dog star, though if you ask me Canis Major looks more like a headless stickman. Utterly ridiculous, but there you go.”

He breaks off as John pulls back to stare at him in disbelief. “What?”

“I thought the solar system wasn’t important.”

“Technically it’s the galaxy.” Sherlock shrugs. “And it seemed important to you.”

John chuckles and leans back against Sherlock’s arm, taking in the patch of sky and the twinkling stars. Sherlock continues to stare up at the sky for several minutes and it strikes John once again how very like a child Sherlock can be with his pure fascination with the world around him.

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yes.” John says. But this time he doesn’t follow Sherlock’s gaze toward the heavens and instead drinks in the sight of the man standing beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peach rose meaning: If you are ready to say, “Let’s get together,” peach roses are the ones to choose as the rose color symbolizes intimacy. (Yup, that is the word for word definition from [this website](http://www.proflowers.com/blog/valentines-day-roses-saying-more-than-you-think).)
> 
> So...a date? Yes, a date. But of course neither of them is acknowledging that fact. Sigh. They’re getting there...slowly.
> 
> Don’t know if anyone caught the hint I tried to sneak in but John was totally wearing his “date shoes” (see ASiB) and Sherlock definitely noticed. And Orion is seriously the only constellation I can find easily so I figured it would be a good starting point for Sherlock if he's learning about stars because John says it's important.
> 
> On a personal note, I’m going out of town this weekend and will be mostly without internet so the next chapter will be posted on Wednesday. Sorry!  
> Also, you may have noticed that the number of chapters has increased. My plan on how to break up the remaining sections changed and that is the result.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Have a lovely weekend!


	14. Chapter 14

The next day there’s no new rose on the table when John makes his way into the kitchen. It’s hard to tell initially with the small army of roses in various beakers and jars but he counts and confirms that there are still only eleven flowers, same as yesterday.

Sherlock is seated at his microscope, completely absorbed in the sample he’s examining. John finds he’s a bit disappointed, especially after last night.

He takes a seat across from Sherlock. “No rose today?”

“Not today.”

“What about your experiment?” John asks.

“Done,” Sherlock says, without looking up.

“You got your results then?” John wonders if he’ll finally get an answer as to what the experiment was about.

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick over John’s face, taking in his raised eyebrow, the stubble on his jaw, and the question in his eyes as he peers through the wall of roses.

Eventually he shrugs. “They’re pending.”

“Pending?”

Sherlock twiddles the focus on his microscope.

“What are you waiting on?” John asks.

“Some sort of reaction,” Sherlock says, “Preferably a reciprocal one, though I suppose any sort of response would be a result nonetheless.”

John shuffles the makeshift vases aside so he can see Sherlock properly. The first few roses are beginning to wither but yesterday’s peach one is just now unfurling its petals into full bloom.

“You know, you never did tell me what kind of experiment it was.”

When Sherlock doesn’t respond he presses on, “Why all the different colours?”

There’s a pause in which Sherlock follows John’s gaze toward the flowers before replying, “Necessary variable.”

John frowns. “Why haven’t you got any regular red roses then? They’re traditional. Shouldn’t they be your control group or something?”

Sherlock rises, crosses the room and exchanges his dressing gown for his coat.

“Social experiment, John. I thought certain biases might prompt a premature assumption which would result in an unfavorable reaction.”

“What sort of reaction...” John begins.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” says Sherlock as he sweeps out the door.

\-----

When Sherlock doesn’t return by lunchtime John ventures out for a walk. He wanders aimlessly and as he passes a flower shop, decides he may as well pick out some roses to replace the ones from before the Garridebs case.

All the florists seem to have stocked up in preparation for Valentine’s Day but he tries four different shops before finding lavender and burgundy roses. None of them seem to have the particular floribunda Sherlock brought home three days ago but he figures he’ll have time to find a replacement later if necessary.

\-----

When he returns to Baker Street Mrs. Hudson emerges from the hall as he starts up the stairs.

“Oh hello dear, do you have a date tonight?” She nods at the roses in his hands.

“They’re for Sherlock.”

Her eyes light up with excitement and she claps her hands together before John realizes his mistake.

“For...for the experiment, I mean. Sherlock’s experiment,” he stammers, “with the roses, you know. I just thought...I mean the old ones needed replacing so-”

He trails off and retreats upstairs but Mrs. Hudson follows a minute later bringing a large vase with her. She takes the fresh roses from John’s hands and begins arranging them.

“Roses are so lovely,” she says, carefully snipping the stems at precise 45 degree angles, “They really brighten the place up.”

John doesn’t say anything but collects the other roses from the table and passes them over to her.

Mrs. Hudson adds these into the arrangement and shuffles them around the vase, making sure all the colours are evenly mixed.

“My husband,” she says, “always brought me roses when we were first dating. Gorgeous red ones.” she stares at the collection on the table wistfully, “Even after we were married he’d bring them home on certain days.”

John smiles as an image of himself bringing flowers to Sherlock, not because of some experiment but ‘just because,’ drifts across his mind.

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson continues, “I didn’t know until later that was how his associates paid him sometimes - hiding money in the wrappings. Pity he always took it out before giving them to me.”

John looks up at her in surprise. She chuckles and hands the old roses to John, who places them into a jar and sets them aside in case Sherlock wants to keep them for some reason.

“Still, they were quite lovely,” she says, “‘Whenever you see a rose remember that I love you’ he always used to say.”

She smiles and nods at the roses between them. “No matter how you look at it roses are always so romantic.”

John opens his mouth to protest that when Sherlock is involved conventional meanings go out the window but then he stops. He barely notices when Mrs. Hudson disappears down the stairs because he’s just remembered the last time he brought roses back to 221B.

\-----

He moves unconsciously toward the mantelpiece as if to recreate the scene and feels his eyes slide closed. In his mind’s eye he sees a ghostly image of a single red rose on the table. Sherlock’s voice echoes in his head:

“Why do you give them roses, John?”

John had looked up from fixing his tie and glanced at Sherlock in the mirror. He had been getting ready for his date with Jennifer...or was it Nicole? He couldn’t remember anymore. He’d never admit it aloud but his many dates from that time all sort of blended together in hindsight.

Sherlock was looking at the single red rose on the table with an expression of distaste and a bit of confusion, waiting for John’s answer.

“Because it’s _romantic_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock met his gaze in the mirror, his eyebrows raised, clearly skeptical.

“Women like that sort of thing,” John had continued, “Well, not just women. Everyone likes getting a token of affection now and then.”

“Do they ever get you anything?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, no.”

“Why not? It’s the 21st century.”

John chuckled. “Well, yeah, I guess it would be nice, but I don’t expect it. Don’t think she expects anything either. It’s just a nice gesture. Bit traditional, you know?” He looked back at his reflection.

Behind him Sherlock still looked perplexed. “But why?”

“Well, why not? Flowers are nice. Simple. They say you like someone without being too unusual or over the top.”

“Why roses though?”

John sighed. Sometimes dealing with Sherlock was like having a child, especially when he fixated on details like this. “Roses are sort of a universal symbol of romance,” he replied. Anticipating another ‘but why’ question he continued, “Dunno why. Ask the floral industry.”

He tugged at his tie again then pulled it off. It still didn’t look quite right. Behind him Sherlock rose from the sofa, stepped over the coffee table and in four long strides made his way to John’s side.

“Don’t wear that one,” he said taking the tie from John’s hands.

“Sherlock -”

“The stripes are too wide,” Sherlock said, “Wear the blue one. The one with navy and charcoal stripes. It’ll complement your shirt, won’t clash with your jacket and it matches your eyes.”

John froze, suddenly aware of how close Sherlock was standing. They were almost shoulder to shoulder, John still facing the mirror. If he turned, their arms would surely brush. As it was he could feel Sherlock’s breath ruffling his hair. He wondered if his friend could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage or see the rapid flutter of his pulse.

“R-right,” he stammered, taking the rejected tie from Sherlock’s hands, their fingers brushing for the briefest of moments. “I’ll...just go and find it then.” He turned to head up the stairs to his bedroom, trying to steady his breathing.

“It’s in your top right drawer, third from the back,” Sherlock called after him.

“Sherlock, how many times have I told you: Stop indexing my ties!”

\-----

John emerges from this memory for a moment. He still has that tie, though it had remained buried at the back of his drawer ever since.

As for that date...

\-----

The date had started off well enough - pleasant small talk, promising hints at what the night had in store. It was all going smoothly until his date had commented on his tie, joking that it matched the painting hanging above their table. Without thinking John had blurted out that Sherlock had picked it out for him. The look she had given him, a cross between jealousy and resignation, had him wishing that the lava cake, which arrived seconds later, was real lava so it could swallow him up and bury him along with that stupid tie.

Sherlock had still been awake when he returned home. Of course he was still awake, John thought, it was only 9:00.

“You’re home early,” Sherlock remarked as John shrugged out of his coat. After the evening’s events he was not in the mood for conversation but Sherlock didn’t seem to take the hint.

“Did she like the tie?”

“Yeah, sure,” said John bitterly, pulling the offending bit of fabric from around his neck and flopping onto his chair.

“You’re upset,” said Sherlock, looking up from his notes.

“Good deduction,” John mumbled as he leaned back and closed his eyes. How had this happened? He was supposed to be halfway across London engaged in delectable foreplay instead of here discussing the intricacies of dating with a bored consulting detective. _Well, talking about how your flatmate picks out your clothes for you isn’t exactly going to get you in her bed, genius,_ he thought furiously.

“What about the rose?” Sherlock asked.

“Real crowd pleaser,” John grumbled. She had indeed seemed charmed when he’d handed it to her and he was sure the evening would have ended quite differently if he could have just kept his stupid mouth shut and his mind off Sherlock.

“Then why -”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

\-----

Sherlock usually chose to ignore John’s social life with the exception of interrupting his dates whenever it suited his needs. However John remembers that Sherlock had continued the conversation the next day and every time they passed a flower stand for about a week.

\-----

“You shouldn’t have given her a red rose,” Sherlock said in greeting when John came downstairs the morning after his disastrous date.

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock had John’s laptop open and was staring intently at something on the screen.

“It says here ‘red roses signify a true love stronger than thorns and can outlive all obstacles. It also has the connotations of desire, a throbbing heat of new love and consummation.’”

John just stared at him.

“You should have given her carnations instead.” Sherlock continued, “They still indicate romance but don’t promise a future that you have no intention of giving. Especially since none of these women you insist on seeing make it past the third date.”

“Carnations are what you give your mum,” John said, “Besides I wasn’t promising anything.”

“Well, another flower then. Perhaps if you found one that more accurately expresses your intentions instead of lying to your dates they’d be more inclined to continue their romantic association with you.”

“For god’s sake I wasn’t lying to her!” John said, “It was just a rose. Where are you even getting this stuff?”

“Right here,” said Sherlock, turning the screen to face him. There were several tabs open, all with titles like ‘The Language of Flowers’ or ‘Say I love you with roses’.

“The writing’s rather appalling but this one is the most comprehensive and I’ve cross-checked the meanings with other websites and they seem to be more or less in agreement.”

John scanned the page and found a list of various rose colours and their meanings.

“By giving her a red rose you implied you wanted a future together,” said Sherlock, “or at the very least, to consummate the relationship.”

“It was our third date, Sherlock. That was kind of the point.”

Sherlock tilted his head in a rather endearing way, a silent question hanging between them. John raised an eyebrow in response.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, “sex.”

John looked away. He’d never been able to discuss this with Sherlock the way he’d been able to with his mates from uni or the blokes in the army.

“So you were just interested in getting into her bed? Sorry John, I don’t think there’s a flower for that. Although I suppose coriander could work. It’s supposed to symbolize lust.”

John tried and failed to stifle a laugh. “Sherlock, that’s for soup.”

\-----

John opens his eyes. And there it is. Red roses. His go-to romantic gesture. The one colour Sherlock had avoided. Was he trying to make it clear that he _wasn’t_ after romance? That can’t be it. Not after everything that had happened since the case ended. Not after last night. John is sure more than ever that their dinner and walk beneath the stars was meant to be a date. But if Sherlock felt the same way what was the point of calling the roses an experiment?

Sherlock had called this “an examination of the effect of symbolism on interpersonal relationships”.

_Symbolism_ John thinks. He opens his laptop and pulls up the old searches. Luckily he’s been a bit lax about clearing his browser history though this means he has to sort through pages of strange searches from times when Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to walk an extra five feet to get his own laptop.

This must be it, he thinks, after several minutes of searching. He clicks the link and finds the definition of red roses just as Sherlock read out all those months ago. This time though he continues to scroll down the page. Yellow roses are for friendship. He’d already known that - once he had made the mistake of giving one to a girl because he thought it was her favourite colour and she’d burst into tears thinking he was breaking up with her.

Then he remembers the circumstances under which Sherlock set out his yellow rose. The declined dinner invitation of the day prior, Sherlock’s sulking response to John’s admiration of the flower and his subsequent uptick in mood when John admitted to liking the orange rose better.

John feels his heart beat faster as he waits for the definition of orange roses to load then feels his breath catch in his throat.

_Fascination. Desire. Passion. Love emerging from friendship._

He almost doesn’t need to read about the other colours but continues scrolling anyway. _Love at first sight. Innocence. Beauty. Gratitude. New beginnings._

He hears Sherlock’s exasperated voice in the back of his mind, _You see but you do not observe._ John turns to stare at the flowers on the table to make sure that they’re real, that he’s not imagining this. Memories flit across his mind - the way Sherlock slipped his arm around him as they walked the night before, the terror in his eyes when he thought John had been shot, the smug look of satisfaction when John once again cancelled a date to join him on a case, and the look on his face the very first night at Angelo’s when John asked if he had a boyfriend.

All the signs were there but John had been too scared of rejection to allow himself to hope. Now his head is spinning with possibility and his heart fills with warmth as he accepts what he should have known a long time ago:

Sherlock is in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 roses means “You are my treasured one.”  
> But it also has a sense of being incomplete until you add one more to make a perfect dozen which has the meaning of “be mine”.
> 
> So, John finally gets it. FINALLY. Why do these two idiots make things so complicated? Seriously though, this story had a mind of its own. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. Next chapter will be posted sometime this weekend.


	15. Chapter 15

“He’s being impossible.”

Molly looks up from the brain she’s examining. Sherlock is leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, looking for all the world like a pouting child.

She chuckles to herself then asks, “But what happened with your experiment?”

Sherlock glances at a set of petri dishes on the counter which are filled with samples of water taken from various locations along the river.

“Not that one.” Molly says, “The one with the roses.”

Sherlock frowns. “He should have figured it out by now. It’s been three days and he hasn’t said _anything_.”

“Maybe he’s just thinking.”

“But why is it taking so long? Does he not want-”

Molly interrupts him, “Of course he does. I’m sure he’s just waiting for...er...something.”

Sherlock drops onto a chair with a dramatic huff and prods the small collection of fingernails on the table, sorting them by thickness.

“Do you have acetone?” he says, changing the subject.

“Sorry?”

He nods at the fingernails. “I thought I could test the rate of disintegration in various fluids. Maybe I’ll write a monograph on the subject. I’ll need some phosphoric acid also.”

Molly scribbles something in her notes then covers the brain and places it back in the freezer. “Well, it certainly is an interesting thought. Maybe if you come up with a list of what you need I can help you later.”

Sherlock looks up at her, his eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to get me to leave.”

Molly continues tidying up but remains silent.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, “You’re the one who invited me here in the first place today. And I haven’t finished sorting these yet.”

“That’s because you’ve been complaining about John for two hours.” She says as she locks the cabinet.

“Well, he’s being impossible.”

“You’ve already said that.”

Sherlock scowls at her as she starts packing up the items on his table as well.

“Look,” she says, “I can set these aside for you to look at tomorrow but I really do need to leave now.”

“Why?” Sherlock looks at the clock, “You’re always here for at least another hour. Oh.”

He trails off as he scans her from head to toe, eyes lingering on her new haircut, freshly trimmed nails, the faint natural blush on her cheeks and the corner of her mobile peeking out from the pocket of her lab coat.

“Of course. _Valentine’s day_. You have a little over an hour to go home and get ready before he picks you up for your dinner reservations. It would be more efficient to just meet there but I suppose that’s part of the romance or something.”

He proceeds to map out the entire itinerary of her evening, complete with a prediction about getting stuck in traffic on the way to the restaurant.

“Okay, okay.” Molly interrupts before he decides to deduce the probability of her getting some action tonight, “One last deduction and then you’re leaving.”

Sherlock glances over her again and his eyes meet hers. “You’re happy.” he observes.

She nods, a smile creeping across her face.

“He’s a good man. And he really does care about you. You deserve that, Molly.”

“Thank you.” She says. After a brief pause she adds, “You deserve that too, you know. Being happy.”

Sherlock ignores her. “Are you sure I can’t stay? I’ll lock up for you.”

“No.” She shoves him gently out the door. “Go home to John.”

\-----

Sherlock takes the long route home. He doesn’t see a reason to rush. John has been acting oddly for the past two days, slipping out of the flat alone for hours at a time. Normally it was easy enough to deduce where he’d gone but John had strayed from his normal patterns. He’d even taken to wiping his internet search history. Sherlock sighs and thinks that perhaps John had managed to get a last minute Valentine’s date after all. He wraps his coat tighter around himself and takes another unnecessary detour.

When the foot traffic around him changes from afternoon commuters into couples holding hands on their way to dinner Sherlock turns toward Baker Street and resigns himself to another quiet evening while John does...whatever it is he’s been doing.

He pushes the door open and for a moment all he sees is the flickering fire. Then he notices that the flowers from his experiment are missing. Instead the mantlepiece is lined with fresh roses, each in its own vase.

They are arranged left to right in the exact order he set the originals out. The colours are identical except that the fusilier rose is replaced by a deep blue.

He hears soft footsteps behind him and turns to see John standing in the doorway, holding a single red rose.

“John. What is all this?”

“I...I guess you could say I’m completing your experiment.” John says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Sherlock’s eyes drift over the roses on the mantelpiece before settling on the one in John’s hands.

“Look,” John says, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to do this. I’ve wanted this for so long but I just kept convincing myself it wasn’t possible.

“And maybe,” he looks down at the red rose, “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this was all just another crazy experiment. But you said you wanted some sort of result or reaction or whatever and, well, if it’s not what you want you can just log it down in your notes and we can move on.”

It takes Sherlock a full minute before he can speak, “So...what does this mean?”

John smiles. “Come on, Sherlock. It’s your experiment. The data is all in front of you. Figure it out.”

Sherlock turns to the line of roses and runs his fingers lightly over them one by one.

“You know blue roses aren’t real?” he asks when he reaches the ninth vase.

John smiles and takes a few steps forward until he’s standing at Sherlock’s elbow. “Rather fitting isn’t it? Sometimes I have trouble believing you’re real too.”

He reaches out and adds the red rose to the end of the row then turns to face Sherlock.

“Even after all this time, every day with you seems like some kind of dream. And I’m sorry that I may have screwed it up a hundred times over. But...dinner the other night. And the case last week. When I saw the gun aimed at you...I couldn’t think. I don't know what I would have done if he’d already pulled the trigger because I can’t imagine a life without you.”

“John. I’m -”

“No, don’t apologize. We always save each other. It’s what we do. Since the day Mike introduced us at Bart’s. When we met I had nothing. But you see through everyone and everything and I think even then you knew that we could be so much more together than we could ever be apart.”

Sherlock nods.

“Just tell me,” John says, “This...experiment - what were you hoping for?”

“I thought it would be obvious.” Sherlock says as he reaches out to take one of John’s hands in his own.

John cups his other hand against Sherlock’s face and Sherlock freezes but doesn’t pull away. They stand there, barely breathing, each afraid to move, afraid that even the tiniest breath will cause this moment to shatter after all it took to get them here. Afraid to close the gap between them because despite the facts, the roses, the long looks and lingering touches, the brain can’t do logic when all these messy emotions are involved.

Then Sherlock breathes one word, “John.”

It’s gratitude, longing and desperation all rolled into a single syllable and with it, John forgets all hesitation, reaches up and pulls Sherlock toward him before finally, finally, _finally_ their lips meet.

\----

Kissing Sherlock is a bit like being a teenager again. There’s a bit of awkwardness in the kiss, combined with an overwhelming excitement that John has never felt before. Like the earth could stop spinning and they’d still remain, falling forever into orbit, each drawn into the other’s gravity.

John’s hands slide up to rest at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, the fingers of his left hand threading themselves through soft curls. At first Sherlock seems unsure of what to do with his hands but eventually settles for placing them around John’s waist, drawing him in closer as he deepens the kiss.

After several minutes, or maybe several hours - it’s impossible to tell which, they break apart, breathless and grinning.

“So,” John says, eyes still closed, “how are your results looking?”

He feels Sherlock smile against his lips,

“They seem favorable.”

“Seem?” John asks, in mock indignation. He pulls Sherlock closer and kisses his neck.

Sherlock gasps but continues, “Well, a proper experiment has many variables. You have to test different circumstances and in this situation it’s not only my assessment that counts -” he trails off as John nibbles lightly on his lower lip.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.” John says, bringing their lips together once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue rose meaning: A tantalizing vision that cannot be totally pinned down, a mystery that cannot be fully unraveled. Since the blue rose itself is a rarity in nature, it stands for something that is hardly within one's grasp. Thus the blue rose is admired and revered as an unrealizable dream.[[x](http://www.roseforlove.com/the-meanings-of-blue-roses-ezp-39)]
> 
> Red rose meaning: a true love that is stronger than thorns and can outlive all obstacles. The red rose expresses the throbbing heat of new love, a passionate expression of attraction. Red is the color of consummation, of raging desires and craving passion. [[x](http://www.roseforlove.com/the-meanings-of-red-roses-ezp-28)]
> 
> 12 roses: be mine. Also, a single red rose means “I love you very deeply”
> 
> \-----
> 
> WOOHOO! They've finally made it!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and these two idiots on this longer-than-expected journey. When I first started writing this I didn't realize just how much the story would grow. And yes, it's a bit late for a Valentine's day fic but I did initially come up with the idea for this in February. It just took me a while to get it all edited and posted.
> 
> As a sidenote, Molly deserves to be happy too. Not that she needs a man for that, but she needed more than the _nothing_ at the end of series 4 that the writers gave her. (One of the many things I'm still upset about).
> 
> There's one more chapter (a brief epilogue) which will be posted by next weekend. Have a wonderful week!


	16. Chapter 16

It’s been one month since the end of Sherlock’s “social experiment”. One month since John Watson kissed Sherlock Holmes for the first time and all the loose ends in their lives fell into place. Sometimes John still has trouble believing that this beautiful, amazing man he’s wanted for so long, is really his.

On the surface though, not much has changed. When John posted an announcement about their new relationship status on his blog it turned out that most of his readers had thought they’d been shagging each other senseless for years. It’s a bit anti-climatic to be honest but it doesn’t bother him. Or at least it wouldn’t, if not for the fact that they haven’t actually _had_ sex yet.

It’s not for lack of desire. He wants to. God, he _wants_ to, but he has no idea how to proceed from here.

With everyone he’s dated before there was a certain social protocol, a script to follow. There was the romantic dinner complete with candlelight and wine, the walk home with increasingly suggestive touches, the lingering on the doorstep followed by an invitation to come in for a cup of coffee or to look at a pet tortoise or something else ridiculously transparent. Even the few one night stands he’d had were prefaced by an evening of heated flirtation and a whisper of “my place or yours”.

But with Sherlock none of the old rules apply. Going out to dinner is more or less the same as it was before except now when Angelo places a candle on their table John smiles and reaches for Sherlock’s hand. There is the walk home of course - wandering through the twisting streets of London hand in hand, and stolen kisses under the moonlight. But when they return to Baker Street there’s no lingering on the doorstep - they simply climb the stairs together laughing.

Sometimes they’ll collapse on the couch together where Sherlock lets his head fall into John’s lap and sighs in contentment as John runs his fingers through his hair. But more often than not they spend their evenings sorting through evidence from some new case until John’s eyelids are heavy with sleep. Eventually he’ll get up to plant a kiss atop Sherlock’s unruly curls before dragging himself upstairs wishing that the criminals of London would have mercy on him and take a collective vacation for one night so he can take his boyfriend to bed with him.

Even if they did though, John can’t quite figure out how to ask without feeling like he’s pushing Sherlock into something he might not even want. Sherlock loves him. He knows that, but it’s not like he can just come out and say “Let’s have sex tonight,” can he? True, it’s often Sherlock who initiates their more spontaneous kisses - in the back of a cab, or in the middle of crowded streets, or sometimes at crime scenes (causing Lestrade to roll his eyes in exasperation while trying to hide a smile). But he always seems to stop right before it goes any further, leaving John unsure if Sherlock even _wants_ sex.

So he waits. And waits. And my god, it’s a good thing they’ve been so busy with cases or John would be jumping out of his skin by now.

\-----

John makes his way up the stairs. Sherlock had just wrapped up a case the day before and said he wanted a date night to celebrate. He’d sent John down to talk to Lestrade in his place while he got things ready but offered no hints about what the night would entail other than saying he wanted it to be ‘special’.

As a result John isn’t sure what to expect. For all he knows Sherlock could be planning to drag him all over London so they can snog on every street corner where they’d found a corpse. It seems like the sort of mad thing Sherlock would do - the precise blend of sentimental and crazy that made John fall desperately in love with him in the first place.

John pushes the door open and gasps. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen but the room is full of flickering candles that illuminate a trail of rose petals. John follows them down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. The door opens as he reaches it and Sherlock emerges wearing a tight purple shirt and dark slacks that hug his body in all the right places. John lets his eyes slide up and down Sherlock’s lean form barely noticing the single red rosebud in his hand.

“Sherlock, what -”

Sherlock hands him the flower and steps aside so John can see past him into the bedroom. There are candles here too and the path of rose petals leads to the neatly made bed.

“I know you’re not good with symbols, John, but surely even you can deduce what this means.”

Sherlock is nervous. That much is clear from the way he keeps tugging at his cuffs and rambling about flowers and symbolism and socially acceptable dating practices he probably spent hours Googling. John just smiles.

“From what I understand,” Sherlock continues, “three dates is the universally accepted minimum and by my calculation we’ve had at least three successful outings since this became official although the definition of what constitutes a date is still rather hazy since we always eat together anyway so I’m not entirely sure which meals were dates and which were just obligatory for human sustenance -”

“Sherlock, stop.” John interrupts because he knows Sherlock could go on for hours like this.

“What?” Sherlock asks, then he drops his gaze to the carpet, “Oh. I thought this is what you wanted. All the signs of sexual arousal were there no matter how hard you tried to hide them.”

He starts to turn away. “Apparently I miscalculated. I’m sorry. I just-”

John steps forward, cupping one hand to Sherlock’s face and resting the other on his hip as he kisses him fiercely.

“Of course I want this,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s lips, “I’ve wanted it for ages. I just didn’t know if you wanted it too.”

Sherlock relaxes into John’s arms, fingers playing at the waistband of his trousers.

“I thought it was obvious.”

“It is now,” John says, tapping Sherlock’s arm lightly with the flower, “You’ve made me rather an expert in rose symbolism, you know.”

“So, you remember what red rosebuds mean?” Sherlock asks.

“Hmm…” John murmurs as Sherlock leans down and kisses his neck.

“John?” Sherlock stops, lips hovering millimeters from John’s pulse point, breath ghosting over his skin.

John searches his brain, a task that proves difficult as he feels the blood rushing to other parts of his anatomy.

“Anticipation,” he whispers.

He moans as Sherlock’s lips return to his neck in response.

“I think that’s appropriate given how long it’s taken us to get here,” Sherlock says, his voice low and rough as his hands fumble with John’s belt buckle.

John’s breath hitches then he trails his fingers down Sherlock’s chest and slips past him into the bedroom. He drops the rose on the bedside table and slowly unbuttons his shirt. For a moment Sherlock stands rooted to the spot, staring as John bends down to slide his shoes off.

John grins at the look of pure want in Sherlock’s eyes and the obvious desire coursing through every fibre of his body. When Sherlock still doesn’t move John reaches out and drags him down into another searing kiss.

“Well, come on then, my rosebud boy,” he says.

As they stumble backward onto the bed John knows that everything, the crazy “experiment”, the waiting, all the anticipation, was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosebud meaning: Anticipation and the opening of the heart and spirit to treasured dreams and the fulfillment of desires. Also a symbol of new romance. [[x](http://www.universeofsymbolism.com/flower-symbolism-page-four.html)]
> 
> Whew! It’s been quite a journey but we've finally reached the end. Thank you all so much for reading! 
> 
> Special shout out for those of you who stuck with this story from the beginning. This was my first time posting fic so reading your kind words and seeing those kudos notifications along the way was so encouraging. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> Also, some backstory on this chapter and the story as a whole: right after Series 4 ended I needed some cheering up and decided to read Carry On (which I highly recommend). After finishing it I just had a burning desire to see John call Sherlock “my rosebud boy” and came up with the headcanon of Sherlock giving John roses to win him over. There's more to that initial headcanon but for that you'll have to wait for the sequel. 
> 
> Yup, there's a part two in the works. Originally it was supposed to be all one story but as I was writing the idea just decided to bloom (haha) and I realized it made more sense to split it up. So...yeah, keep an eye out for that!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


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